Prize of My Heart (2 page)

The man began to chuckle softly. “All of a sudden you’re anxious to return to your duties, are you? My apologies, for it seems I’ve frightened you.”

When Lorena refused to share in his amusement, he presented her with an exaggerated frown. “What? Not even a smile will you grant me? Ah, very well then, girl, since you won’t tell me your name, and you’re obviously not in any sort of distress, I suppose I shall have to let you pass, but first it is my desire—”

The squared jaw dropped. Those sharp blue eyes lost their focus as they rolled back in his head. He swayed on his feet, and Lorena shrieked, sprinting from his path as he staggered, then fell facedown in the grass with a force that shook the ground beneath her feet.

Stunned, she leaned forward to inquire, “Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

He seemed not.

“Yeeooowee, I got him. Are you hurt, Lorena?”

Drew leapt out from the grasses, his rugged child’s body clothed in knee breeches dyed an emerald green to hide the grass stains, shoes but no stockings, and a striped red-and-white waistcoat as gay as the grin on his round, pink face.

As Lorena watched him advance, she struggled to understand what had just happened.

At her feet lay a mountain of a man, unconscious.

“Drew, what have you done?”

Hands planted squarely on hips, the child squinted up at her as though she were a simpleton. “I slew the giant, Lorena. Like David. Just as you showed me. I saved you.” Losing all patience with her, he turned away to search the tall grass. “I must find my stone. I might need it again someday.”

“You naughty, naughty boy. I gave you that sling so you’d take more interest in your Sunday school lessons. How many times must I explain, it is only to be used when we pretend Goliath is a tree. We do not aim stones at living creatures. And what is that red smudge on your cheek? Oh, tell me you haven’t been eating my cranberry tarts. Papa’s client is dining with us this evening, and now what shall I serve him? Listen to me, prattling on about cranberry tarts, while this poor fellow lies . . .”

Lorena knelt beside the body. Grass stuck up around the stranger’s form like the staves of an unfinished basket. Warily, she leaned closer to listen for his breathing. Her hand trembled, suspended over his rugged face with its darker blond side whiskers. She was tempted to reach out and touch him as a sense of destiny moved fleetingly through her spirit.

Drew pulled a dirt-stained finger from his mouth. “We should get away, Lorena. Before he wakes. He is a dangerous giant. I can tell by the looks of him.”

Lorena snatched back her hand. The clever mite did have a point. He was an exceptionally astute child, she was proud to admit, although she felt none too proud of this latest show of his abilities.

Straightening, she released the breath she’d been holding. “Yes, we should be gone. He is not seriously injured, only stunned, thank goodness. He’ll fare well enough, although I do despise the thought of leaving an unconscious man unattended,” she went on, as much to herself as to Drew, “but Papa’s workmen shall be arriving any moment now. They’ll find him and revive him, if he hasn’t already done so himself.”

Then, hopefully, this man, whoever he was, would continue on his way, go back to wherever it was he’d come from and forget the whole incident.

Or perhaps his employer would happen by and find him asleep on the job.

Oh, Lorena, how can you jest?
She was a Christian woman, but she wasn’t stupid enough to wait around until he woke and face a possible wrathful confrontation between this colossus and a small boy, who had clobbered him with a well-aimed stone.

And then it occurred to her that Drew indeed had saved her, for this man’s last words were “But first it is my desire . . .” What had been his desire? she wondered. A kiss?

She glanced at the unshaven face and blushed to the roots of her heavy cloud of curls.

“When we get home, Lorena, will you read to me again of David?”

Lorena smiled down at the precious golden child God had placed in her care to love and protect. She’d deal with Drew’s misconduct later, but right now her heart couldn’t help but fill to bursting at her little misguided hero. She leaned forward, hands on knees, and addressed him sweetly. “If you wish to hear more of King David, we shall read his psalms. You need to learn David’s wisdom before you mimic his actions, or the next thing I know you’ll be trotting off to slay a bear. Tonight we’ll start with—”

A loud groan erupted from the stranger sprawled on the thick carpet of marsh turf. For a moment they both froze as the man stirred.

Lorena grabbed Drew’s hand, and they ran like Elisha fleeing the wrath of Queen Jezebel.

I
’ve already told you, Jabez, I don’t know what happened. I was about to inform the girl she could expect to receive me this evening by saying, ‘It is my desire to know what you shall be serving for supper,’ when the next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the grass with the worst headache of my life.”

Brogan angled his face in his handheld traveling mirror as he shaved. “But you can be certain I intend on finding that skinny slip of a scullery maid and discovering whaaa . . . ahhhhhk . . . enough of this contemptible blade!”

Blood pooled on his chin as he flung the straight-edged razor into a porcelain bowl with such disgust that soapy water splashed over the rim onto the night table and dripped to the floor.

Then, for no other reason than because the fellow happened to be standing nearby, Brogan directed his aggravation at his chief mate, who was presently leaning against the doorjamb of the room they’d taken at the inn. “Shall I interpret that smirk to mean you’re about to laugh, Mr. Smith? If so, pray, let me caution you. Do not give in to it.”

Jabez Smith shook off the threat with a shrug of his brawny shoulders while across his densely freckled face stretched a grin that deepened the creases at the corners of his dark blue eyes. “I find it so unlike ye, Cap’n,” he bellowed in a voice deep and resounding enough to be heard over a strong quartering wind. “In all our years together—and they’ve been many—I’ve never known ye to be careless.”

He uncrossed burly arms from over a thick barrel of a chest and stepped forward into a pool of warm sunlight slanting in from the open window. He smelled of the sea, and in the glaring brightness his coarse head of coppery curls and bushy side whiskers came ablaze with glowing tints of orange and gilt.

“Carelessness is unthought of in privateering if a man values his life. A privateer has to have skill, courage, and endurance. But most of all, a privateer has to stay alert. And you, sir, were one of the greatest American privateer captains in the War of 1812. And here I see this brave, daring master of the sea seated on the edge of a bed, whining over a sore head and a razor nick on his chin.”

Brogan curled his lips in a soundless growl.

“Well, what did ye expect?” the mate raved on. “Why must ye be such an arrogant fellow? Flaunting yerself before a good girl on Nathaniel Huntley’s land? It ain’t polite to go up to some unfamiliar woman and force yer acquaintance without so much as a ‘how d’ye do.’”

Brogan checked his reflection for damage to his face, but saw only his scowl and a slow drip of blood from his chin. He blotted the spot with a towel. “I was only having a little fun. I meant no harm, and if in the process I managed to glean a bit of useful information about the Huntley household, all well and good, but the girl was not the least cooperative. Anyway, I do recall wishing her a good morning.”

“Well, a good morning it turned out to be indeed. Someone did not like yer idea of fun, and do ye wonder maybe it wasn’t one of the blessed Savior’s angels, come to knock ye over the head for the deed ye hope to carry out?”

“Don’t be a fool, Jabez. The Almighty does not send out angels to knock men over the head.” The ache in the back of his skull had begun to throb again. Brogan swung his long legs onto the coverlet of faded blue-checkered linen and leaned back against the goose-down pillows. “I can assure you, He hasn’t the time to bother about the doings of my life.” From beneath the straw-filled ticking, the bedstead ropes groaned as he stretched out.

“No, Mr. Smith, there is only one thing I have ever received from your blessed Savior, and that is indifference.”

Jabez winced, giving Brogan pause with regard to his choice of words. His troubled relationship with the Lord was not for lack of his friend sharing his faith.

Raised by his devout Christian grandmother, Jabez Smith had a gift for zeroing in on people in need of his guidance. Brogan had been no more than six when Jabez rescued him from the gutters of Boston Harbor, procuring him employment as a cabin boy on the vessel he sailed with. Until then, Brogan had been a scrawny waif on the run from an orphan asylum, where he was repeatedly forced to wear a tag labeling him as
Bad
. He’d been told that God would see the tag and ignore his prayers, for God wanted no part of baseborn orphans.

To his credit, Jabez had tried to dispel the belief. He procured a pocket Bible from a local Bible society to use as text for Brogan’s reading and writing lessons in the same manner other children were taught at Sunday school. Brogan discovered a passion for learning and the focus to comprehend even the complicated mathematics of navigation. He made certain to be in attendance each time their generous and fair captain held school for any interested crewmen. He sought to better himself, but more, he sought truth, though he continued to feel unworthy of that truth.

He took that Bible with him on every ship he sailed with. He carried it in his ditty bag through manhood and into the war. Before long, it would hold a place of honor on the bookshelf of the great cabin aboard the ship
Yankee Heart
. The odd thing was, Brogan could not recall the last time he’d so much as opened the cover.

Jabez cleared his throat and the sound returned Brogan’s attention to the issue at hand. “Well then, aren’t ye at least concerned the boy may not come willingly to a father he does not remember? Benjamin may resent being taken from the only life he’s ever known.”

Brogan raised himself on one elbow. “I will not allow a son of mine to be raised an orphan, believing he has no one in the world he truly belongs to, when he has a father who loves him. I know the pain in that. Benjamin is very young; he’ll recover. On the other hand, I must be gentle yet swift in gaining his affections. I don’t wish him hurt. I intend to restore my relationship with my son during the time I remain in Duxboro. I shall convince Nathaniel Huntley to allow me to take the boy for a short cruise on my new merchantman, and then we three shall sail off, never to return.”

“A ship’s deck makes for a queer playground. Maybe the boy needs more than a life at sea.”

Brogan mulled the comment with one raised brow. “The sea has been good and fair to the pair of us. And he’ll have a parent who loves him looking after his welfare. God rest her soul, we both recall what little care Benjamin’s mother had for her own child, don’t we?”

The look on Jabez’s face was answer enough. “Very well, then,” the mate conceded. “Aren’t ye intimidated by Huntley’s wealth and influence? What if he decides to pursue us? And I am willing to bet he will. What will we do then?”

“Mr. Smith, have you ever met a man who could outsail me on the high seas?” Jabez shook his head, whereupon Brogan added, “If I were one to believe in the honesty of others, I would confess the truth in good faith to Nathaniel Huntley, asking that he release the boy to his natural father. But the day Abigail informed me I’d never find my son still burns in my memory. She told me to forget Benjamin in a tone she may as well have been using to refer to a castoff sock.”

Brogan rose off the bed to pace the small confines of the room. “You see, Jabez, I believe there was more to Abigail’s abandoning Benjamin than a desire to wash her hands of me and my son. She wanted Ben and me separated. Why, I do not know. But Huntley had to have been involved in her scheme. And with Abigail dead, who shall confirm my paternity? Who shall speak that I am the boy’s father as I claim to be? Something evil is at work; I can feel it. Deceit is afoot. For if it were merely a case of Huntley caring for the boy on Abigail’s behalf, then what purpose was served in changing his identity? He has been hiding the boy, just as Abigail insinuated to me that Ben was well hidden. You have to agree the whole state of affairs is not right.”

He ceased his agitated pacing and turned to wait upon his friend for a reaction.

Jabez bowed his head to contemplate a ray of sunlight streaking across the dusty floor. “Aye, Cap’n. Something is not right.”

“And Ben is caught in the middle of it. So shall I risk a long and scandalous legal battle with a powerful, affluent fellow like Nathaniel Huntley for the right to my own son? If so, what assurance do I have of success? Me, a man some repute to be of a nefarious sort. A legalized pirate, as privateers have been called. I also worry what effect such a course would have on Ben. I want him freed and unscathed, living with his natural father. So you can understand, Jabez, why I feel the need to steal back my son, just as he was stolen away from me.”

The Huntley estate occupied a hundred acres on the north bank of the Bluefish River and stood at the head of the bay in an area known as Powder Point.

Jabez at his side, Brogan walked the coastal road from town, which years ago had been named Squire Huntley Road by the town’s citizens in honor of Nathaniel’s father, due to the magnitude of his Duxboro holdings.

Squire Huntley Road followed the bay, then rounded a sharp bend as one neared the large black-and-white Federal house. This morning it resonated with the sounds of working men and animals, of blacksmiths and horses and carpenters, the clattering of a wagon, the jingle of a harness, and the echo of the sea.

Brogan took his first full breath of that sea, and as it filled his lungs, the salt and rugged air penetrated his body to cleanse every pore. After the stale confines of the inn’s lodgings, the sunlight and fresh wind revived his senses.

As they started up the brick walkway toward the beautiful two-story dwelling, Brogan paused to glance back across the road at the waterfront. Several outbuildings surrounded a fitting dock that extended into the bay. Here, he knew, Huntley vessels were rigged, their finishing touches added.

For a moment he wondered whether it might be selfish to deprive a child of such a grand place to live. Then he thought better. Selfish to believe a son should be with his father? The ease with which orphans fell victim to families in need of cheap labor was common knowledge. Homeless young boys, raised to feel too unworthy to deserve better, could provide a lifetime of servitude, helping to secure that family’s inheritance for its heirs. Nay! No amount of riches or beauty could compare to the worth of a father’s love.

His heart raced knowing he’d soon confront young Ben for the first time in three years. Ofttimes in his seafaring career, Brogan had faced danger. He’d shortened sail ninety feet above a swaying deck with the wind lashing at his back, many times in the darkness of night. The violence of the waves could snatch a man from the deck and hurl him into the sea, but the prospect of failure had not been as daunting as the task at hand.

What if he were unsuccessful in regaining his son’s affection?

“Cap’n? Something wrong?” Jabez asked.

Brogan proceeded without comment up the hedge-lined walkway to the large black lacquered door.

He banged the brass knocker, and moments later the door was opened by a young servant girl, not the girl Brogan had met in the shipyard earlier but one of a more robust figure, at least half a foot shorter and a few years younger. Beneath her little white cap, her hair shone a light butter toffee brown. Her hazel-green eyes stared up at him, round and curious; yet as large as they were, they widened at the sight of two beefy fellows come to call.

Brogan doffed his beaver top hat and bid, “Good day. We have an appointment with Mr. Huntley.”

“Good day, sir.” She blushed shyly and glanced down at his tall black Hessians. “What name shall I say, sir?”

“Captain Brogan Talvis and Mr. Jabez Smith.”

She welcomed them into the hall, which Brogan could see ran the full length of the house. As she hurried off to fetch her employer, he searched for any sign of Ben—a small chair perhaps, a child’s toy, the echo of boyish laughter from a distant doorway, a voice, a noise . . .

Noise. He heard it at the top of the stairs, the padding of tiny feet, and immediately looked up to see a barefoot child with plump pink toes descend the stairs. The lad’s hair was a shock of curls, as pale and as fine as corn silk, just as Brogan’s had been at that age. His sturdy body was brightly clothed in emerald knee breeches and a striped waistcoat. One chubby hand clutched a sling, the other a carved, painted sailboat.

He bounded down and, in his haste, remained unaware of the visitors below. Brogan preferred to believe it was due to the bond they shared that suddenly the lad realized he was being watched. The boy stopped, as hypnotized by what he saw as Brogan was himself.

The blood rushed to Brogan’s head, leaving him dizzy with excitement, while the moment etched itself in his memory. Staring back at him was an innocent version of Abigail’s eyes, and how vividly he remembered them. They had haunted his dreams these three years. Exotic blue eyes reminiscent of the tropics.

“Ben,” he hailed, his voice no louder than a hoarse rasp. He moved as though to mount the staircase and pronounced more clearly, “How fare you, Ben?”

The boy’s mouth dropped open; his eyes rounded in fright. An iron grip fastened around Brogan’s arm to hold him steady, as the deep, low voice of Jabez Smith cautioned in his ear, “Not now, Cap’n. Ye’ve scared the lad.”