No they don’t. Some will die with or without you. Others will live on, sailing, fighting, living just as men of the sea have done for thousands of years.
Amanda closed the pamphlet she had no hope of reading while her own conscience demanded she confront her deepest desires with brutal honesty.
“Because I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.” She said in a fractured voice that sounded suspiciously close to a sob.
The admission had the impact of a physical blow. To leave the ship would be to leave behind the captain. She inhaled a ragged breath. Regardless of his lack of feelings for her, she didn’t think she could live without him.
So do something about it!
Chapter Thirteen
After nearly two weeks of idleness, the prize crew returned, Neil among them. Joy settled in Amanda’s bruised heart when she glimpsed his ardent face between the shoulders of shipmates jostling for position, eager to hear accounts of their adventures.
Neil seemed to have grown a couple of inches and broadened about the shoulders. Or maybe he just stood a little taller. Caught in the excitement and relief of seeing her brother again, she wedged her way in and reached to give him a hug.
“Remember yourself!” he said for her ears only, then pushed her away.
Relief at seeing him safe mingled with the pain of the rebuff made her eyes well with tears. “So, how did it go?” Amanda asked, the forced cheer of her voice pitching it above the clamor.
“It was magnificent!” Neil said, looking at the other men and largely ignoring his sister. “The court accepted the legitimacy of our claim and we sold the merchant ship at auction. That took some time though.”
“What did you do with yourself while you waited?” Roger asked.
Neil’s gaze skittered toward Amanda then back to his mates. For the briefest of moments, he reminded her of the little brother he had once been.
“We spent most of our time at the tavern,” Neil said.
“Enjoying the entertainments and such,” Simon nudged him with his elbow so hard that Neil nearly toppled.
Neil righted himself, but a blush covered his cheeks. The color took Amanda by surprise. For all the trouble her brother had gotten himself into over the years, she couldn’t ever remember him blushing.
“Did you consort with any locals?” one man asked, his leering grin leaving no room for interpretation.
The implication of their questions dawned on Amanda, and she glared at the sailor.
She could protect her brother on the ship to some extent, but if his mates insisted on introducing him to whoring…she could barely say the word even to herself, well then, there wasn’t much she could do about it.
She would speak to the captain. He might think she coddled her brother too much, but this was different. If ever Neil needed a steady male influence, this situation surely called for it.
Then again, perhaps Captain Stoakes approved of this sort of behavior. He allowed no women on his ship, yet they could be at sea for weeks or even months at a time. He might encourage the occasional romp with a tavern wench. For all she knew, he engaged in all sorts of sordid activities while on shore.
She gritted her teeth. The captain could use his shore leave however he pleased, but he really should keep more careful watch over his younger charges. He had to know Neil wasn’t the fifteen he claimed to be. To expose a boy to such depravity was unforgivable!
The men were now talking in some sort of code of which Amanda could make little sense. She guessed many of the phrases referred to lying with a woman given the leering grins on their faces and the way they were elbowing each other and slapping each other on the back. Maybe she had given their honor too much credit. Men were men after all, and the captain was one of them!
A small corner of her mind told her she was being slightly unreasonable, but the larger part, the part that held absolute sway at the moment, disregarded the fact that he hadn’t personally introduced her little brother to the seedier side of life. As captain of the Amanda, he was responsible for the conduct of his crew.
“…blood everywhere,” Neil finished saying.
The words yanked her from the fog of her anger, and she refocused her attention.
The crew had been given transport to the Amanda on the Venture, a ship of the Continental Navy, under the command of Captain James Stoddard. It seemed luck followed the Amanda’s crew like a pod of dolphins, and Stoddard had served with Captain Stoakes aboard a Royal Navy ship when they were both lieutenants, long before independence had been declared. Although they chose different paths, they remained friends.
Fortunately, at least in Neil’s opinion, they engaged a 64-gun frigate outside the port of Boston. Equally matched in sailing skills and firepower, the ships were like cocks in a fight, each determined to claw the other to pieces. Neil’s large hands flew in all directions as he mimicked the scenes for his audience. He expressed surprise at how slippery blood made the scrubbed planks of a wooden deck. Even though it ran off into the scuppers in glistening crimson ribbons, he ended up on his backside more than once.
Amanda choked back the bile rising in her throat.
After what seemed like hours of bloody fighting, the Venture brought down the enemy’s main mast with a well-aimed shot, and the English merchantman struck her colors. There were many casualties, and he had found himself with the insides of a man clinging to his sleeve, too busy to notice it until victory had been won.
The seas rose like the appreciative laughter of the men around her, and the deck heaved under Amanda’s feet. Her brother’s answers to the fervent questions of the men grew distant and indistinct. She knew she had mere moments to make her way back to the privacy of her quarters before her breakfast pushed past the constriction in her throat.
Legs like ropes, she made her way down the narrow steps. Holding her hand against the rough planks of the wall to steady herself, she groped along to the quarters she shared with the doctor and fell into her hammock. The world still spinning, she squeezed her eyes shut and willed the images of her brother covered in blood and viscera to go away.
“Sounds a bit too gruesome to be real, doesn’t it?” a deep voice said.
Amanda’s eyes flew open. “I’m sorry, Captain, I was feeling a little ill.” She forced herself into a sitting position in her hammock. “We’ve had such nice weather, and now that the seas have become a bit rougher, it appears I may not yet have my sea legs.”
She couldn’t let him think the violence had overwhelmed her. It would give him one more reason to get rid of her.
The captain’s smile was understanding, but not accusatory. He didn’t question her resolve nor call her bluff. Nor did he mention the small puffs of wind that ruffled the smooth surface of the sea like the breath of an angel.
“How do you handle it?” she asked, without preamble, hoping he wouldn’t take her question as a sign of weakness.
“Not well,” he said with a sigh. “Believe it or not, I hate the violence of war.”
Surprised at his candor, Amanda gave him a questioning look. He pushed himself away from the doorframe and came to sit next to her. His greater weight made her side of the hammock lift up, and she had to force herself to sit upright to avoid falling against him. Unable to resist, she let herself lean toward the captain, not touching, but close enough to let the comforting heat from his shoulder wash against her cheek.
“I was too young to fight in the French and Indian War, but I followed my father’s regiment and helped in any way I could; drummer boy, stable hand, latrine digger.”
The self-deprecating smile he gave her with that last admission warmed her heart.
“The Indians had a vastly different idea of warfare from the British. Their battles could be bloody and merciless. Many of the tribes didn’t even consider the notion of sparing women and children.” His voice caught. “I was there when my father died…”
The pain in his eyes said more than words ever could. He had yet to recover f
rom the death of his father. In a way, she understood his pain, having experienced a similar loss. However, she could only imagine the horror of being a young boy and watching it happen.
He lowered his head until his chin rested against his chest and closed his eyes. Amanda looked at his strong hands, resting in his lap. She wanted to lay her hand on his, to comfort him while he wrestled with the demons from the past. Fear that her touch would end the fragile connection they had formed kept her hands balled in her lap while she grappled for something that would keep him talking.
“Did you have brothers and sisters? A mother?” If he couldn’t talk about his father, maybe he could talk about the rest of his family, assuming he had one.
“A mother, yes. No brothers or sisters though, at least none I was aware of.” His soft laughter held no humor this time.
Amanda could have kicked herself for asking. With a mother who, for whatever reason, he felt bitter toward, and no brothers or sisters, he must have grown up a lonely young man. No wonder the role of captain, separated from the rest of the men by rank and duty, suited him so well. He had grown used to being alone.
“As soon as I was old enough, I decided to join the English Navy.” He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. “For a time it was wonderful. On the open sea, you could see the enemy, but not their faces unless you boarded the ships. Since I was still quite young, I didn’t join a boarding party for over a year. When I did, I realized the idea of a bloodless battle was no more than an illusion.” He rubbed his palms over his knees as though they were sweaty. “People still died.”
The need to comfort him exerted almost a physical pull on Amanda. She gave up trying to maintain her ramrod posture and allowed herself to fall a little closer, her head inches from his broad shoulder. The heat from his body enveloped her even though no part of her touched him.
“Didn’t men on your own ship die?” she asked.
“Of course. But that only made me more eager to fight our enemy. They were responsible for the deaths of my shipmates, and I wanted revenge. But that was before I actually had the pleasure of killing my first man.” Bitterness rang in his words.
“He probably wasn’t much older than I am now. Big brute of a man though. I remember a gold tooth flashing through his thick beard. When I ran him through with my sword, I thought perhaps I had missed until I saw the gold turn red. Blood seeped through the gaps between his teeth, and I barely had time to scamper out of the way before he dropped to the deck like a felled tree.”
“But you kept fighting?” Amanda asked, although she already knew the answer.
“I did,” the captain said, his face a mask of determination.
“But why? Why would you continue to fight if you hated the violence so much? You didn’t need the money, or at least you don’t now. Why continue?”
Amanda’s questions came in rapid-fire succession. She needed to know the answer, for somehow, she knew in her heart the answers held the key to the man behind the captain’s façade.
“Because there are some causes worth fighting for. If you’re lucky, the causes you fight for are also worth dying for, if that is to be your fate.”
Suddenly it all became too much. The pain he had endured, her own difficult life, and the thought of losing the captain bore down on Amanda. This man, so suited to be captain of a ship, abhorred the violence that came with it. Yet he was willing to sacrifice his happiness for a cause he believed in. His sacrifices had led him to great wealth, but what good would that do him if his head were taken off by a cannonball in the next battle?
She tried to blink back her tears, but one escaped and slid down her cheek.
“Hey there, sailors don’t cry,” the captain said.
“But you said so yourself. I’m not a sailor. I’m just a woman.”
“That you are.” He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him.
Amanda turned her face into his shoulder, her tears soaking his coat. “I’m getting you all wet,” she said, dabbing at the sooty streak her tears had left on the blue wool.
He must be disgusted with her. She had tried her hardest to act like a sailor so he might give up his hardheaded notions about women, yet here she was, acting more like a woman than ever.
“That’s all right.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Your face looks like it could use the cleaning.”
Amanda gave a sputtering laugh. “I’ve been teaching Cookie the finer art of biscuits and he hasn’t quite got the knack of it yet.” She dried her tears on her sleeve, then laid her head back against his chest, amazed at her own brazenness.
“Is my galley still serviceable?” he asked, resettling his arms around her.
She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the humor in his question. Only he would think of food at a time like this.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get your precious eggs in the morning,” she said, her voice light.
He had shared something of himself, memories of the past she suspected few men had heard. Now, he held her in his arms, allowed her to stain his wool coat with her tears, and jested with her about mundane things like the state of his galley. She snuggled against the captain, taking comfort in the slow steady beat of his heart against her ear. He tightened his arms around her.
The tender moment had an illusory quality about it. Amanda shut her eyes, daring to imagine sitting with him like this in a townhouse in Baltimore, a roaring fire at their feet, children sleeping in another room. They would talk of many things, politics, literature, what they should have for breakfast.
That last thought brought a smile to her lips until guilt chased it away with a sigh. Her actions were those of a woman, but did it matter anymore? The moment she had allowed the first teardrop to spill from her eye, she had proven the captain right. She didn’t have what it took to be a true sailor. She never would. Why not enjoy being held in the captain’s strong arms for just a few more minutes? The chance might never come again.
“What is it?” Captain’s Stoakes’ concerned voice rumbled against her ear.
“I don’t suppose you comfort all your men this way, do you?” she said, hoping her humor would help hide her sorrow.
The captain chuckled. “I most certainly don’t. For one thing, I don’t think my arms would fit around some of them. For another, I don’t relish the black eye I’d get from Roger if I tried to hold him like this.”
Amanda’s sad smile pressed her cheek into the warmth of his chest. “Well, if you ask me, they don’t know what they’re missing.”
“How’s that?” His breath ruffled one of the curls that had escaped from beneath her cap.
“It’s very comforting. I can’t recall the last time I’ve felt so warm and safe.”
Beneath her cheek, the captain’s chest ceased its steady rise and fall. His arms felt like lead pipes wrapped around her waist. She pulled away and looked into his face.
“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”
“No.” His voice was as hard as his eyes.
Perhaps Captain Stoakes couldn’t abide a woman’s tears. That might explain his insistence that no women be allowed aboard his ship. He had seen her distress at Neil’s gruesome tale and come to make sure she hadn’t taken ill. Her tears undoubtedly caught him by surprise, and he reacted as any man would, giving into the need to comfort her until she stopped crying.
Then he remembered himself and where they were. The captain probably saw tears as a sign of weakness. They might be acceptable in a woman, but they certainly weren’t something he should have to contend with aboard his ship. Amanda had never been prone to tears, but he had no way of knowing that.
“I know I’m not behaving as I ought. It’s been a trying week, but I’m sure I’ll be back to my usual annoying self after a good night’s sleep.”
Her attempt at humor did nothing to ease the harsh look he wore.
“You do not annoy me,” he said.
Amanda straightened and realized he still ha
d his arms about her. Her heart beat a little faster.
What had he meant? With his crew, his demeanor was often benevolent if demanding. With Neil, he was kind and even paternal. More often than not, he treated Buck and Bull as friends instead of subordinates. With her, he behaved as though he found her as irritating as a bur under his shirt.
But whenever she came near, it was almost as if he donned a uniform he kept handy just for such occasions. His shoulders grew rigid and his spine straight as though someone had slapped a corset on him and cinched it tight. His moves became as precise as the doctor’s during a difficult surgery. Even his speech changed. He said little, if anything at all.
Sometimes she even saw traces of the wolf in the way he watched her as though she were his enemy moving about his quarters, serving him breakfast and straightening his things.
Her inner voice prodded her. He kissed you—twice.
Yes, but he had kissed her once to make her docile, and twice because he had been under extreme duress. His ship had been battered, and they had lost many men. He had found comfort in kissing her, and she had gladly given it.
Since that day, however, his unease around her had grown worse. Perhaps he regretted his behavior, thinking she might read more into it than there was. Then he had informed her that he did not wish to be alone with her. How could she not think her very existence annoyed him?
Although the captain’s arms were still about her waist, he hadn’t moved. It was like being held by a statue, except instead of cold metal, she could feel his heat wrapping about her, drawing her in. She raised her chin to look into his face, certain his eyes would hold the same aggravation they always did when he looked at her.
The hard amber orbs had turned to molten gold, and he looked at her with a heat that threatened to melt her to the core. His darker side, the side she had come to think of as the wolf, had emerged.
The urgings of her inner voice echoed in her head. Do something about it!
But what? she nearly asked aloud. How did one master a wolf?
Caution to the Wind (American Heroes) Page 14