Surrender the Heart

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Oh he does, does he, Mr.…”

  “Mr. Weller, miss.” Intelligent brown eyes examined her from within a face that, despite the scar, appeared young. He nodded at the death grip she had on the mast. “And he insists you go below if you’re not feeling well.”

  Releasing the mast, Marianne cocked her head. “Insists, you say?” She glanced up at the quarterdeck where Noah stood by the wheel glaring down at her, his purple plume bending to the breeze. She could not make out his eyes in the shadow of his hat.

  Ever present, his salacious accomplice, Mr. Heaton, stood by his side.

  Retrieving a handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed the perspiration on her neck and faced Mr. Weller. “And what is your position aboard the ship, sir?”

  He stared agape at her as if no one had ever asked the question. “I am the ship’s gunner and supercargo, miss.”

  “What does a supercargo do?” She could well assume what function a gunner served.

  “I handle the transfer of all monies, miss, along with carrying out all selling and buying at each port of call.”

  Marianne smiled. This man could be very useful to her. “Indeed. Do you know much of the workings of the ship?”

  “Aye, miss. I suppose.” He tugged upon his red scarf, his brows scrunching together beneath the brim of his hat.

  Tucking that information away for a more propitious time, Marianne sighed. “Very well, Mr. Weller, would you do me the honor of escorting me up to see the captain? I should like to speak with him, and I am unaccustomed to the shifting deck.”

  A slow smile lifted his lips. “Why, yes, miss.” He extended his arm, but suddenly snapped it back and shoved his hand into his pocket. But not before she saw that only two fingers remained upon it.

  He gestured with his other hand toward the ladder and started in that direction. Marianne had no idea what had happened to this man, but she did know how it felt to be less than perfect, to be flawed. Weaving her arm through his, she pulled his hand from his pocket and gave him her best smile.

  He eyed her curiously, then led her to the stairs and up onto the quarterdeck just as “A sail, a sail!” bellowed down from the crosstrees.

  “Where away?” Noah yelled, trying to ignore Miss Denton, who took a spot beside him.

  “Off our larboard quarter.”

  Cursing under his breath, Noah raised his spyglass and focused on the horizon. Most likely another merchant ship. Nothing to get overwrought about. Certainly less remarkable than the scene he’d just witnessed amidships. Miss Marianne Denton, highbrow extraordinaire, treating scared and deformed Mr. Weller with not only kindness but also compassion. Even from his position above her, Noah had seen the slight cringe on her expression the moment she caught sight of his face. He’d waited for the expected turn of her nose and polite excuse to leave. Shock gripped him at what he beheld instead.

  Now, she stood beside him, one hand lifted to cover her eyes as she peered in the direction of his scope, the other hand clutching the railing in such a tight grip, her fingers reddened. The scent of fresh soap wafted over him—no doubt given her by Agnes. The clean lavender smell—a rare one among sailors—tickled his nose and aroused his guilt. Miss Denton should not be at sea. Born to opulence and ease, she was like a duchess among degenerates aboard this ship of rough, crude sailors.

  He adjusted the scope until three sails, glutted with wind, came into view. His chest tightened. Not a merchant ship. He handed the glass to Luke.

  “What do you make of her?” he asked.

  His first mate studied the ship for several seconds before giving Noah a look of concern. “A British warship.”

  “Yes.” Noah took the glass and nodded. “A frigate was my guess.”

  “She appears to be gaining, sir.” Luke scowled.

  Miss Denton faced him, her chest heaving and her brown eyes wide. “Will they attack us, Mr. Brenin?”

  Noah flexed the muscles in his jaw. “Captain.”

  She huffed. “Will they attack us, Captain?”

  Noah angled his lips and shrugged. “Why would they?”

  “They may try an’ impress us.” Mr. Pike offered from his position at the wheel behind them.

  “Balderdash, Mr. Pike. We have no one on board who deserted the British navy.” Yet even as he uttered the confident declaration, his glance took in Mr. Weller, who stood at the foot of the quarterdeck ladder. Though the man hadn’t directly deserted the Royal Navy, he had allowed them to presume him dead when the brig sloop he served aboard went down in a squall four years ago.

  Mr. Weller’s gaze met his, and Noah saw raw fear leap in his eyes at the sight of one of His Majesty’s ships heading straight toward them.

  “Never fear, Mr. Weller,” Noah said. “It will not come to that. However, go below and ready the guns in the off chance we need them.” Which they wouldn’t, of course. Not only because it would be suicide to go up against a British frigate with Noah’s small armament, but because all Noah’s dealings with the British had proved them an honorable people. Despite the stories he heard on the docks, Noah did not believe the British would steal Americans to serve on their ships. Regardless, he wanted to give his gunner something to do that would help ease his fears.

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Weller nodded and jumped down the ladder.

  The ship swooped over a roller, flinging creamy spray across the bow. Miss Denton’s knuckles whitened on the railing. She seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  Fear. He recognized it well. Mind-numbing, debilitating fear. But of what? The frigate? Him? Or was it an act?

  Regardless, he had no time for her theatrics. “Make all sail, Mr. Heaton. That should give them the message that we haven’t time to stop and chat.”

  “Haul taut, sheet home, hoist away topgallants and jib!” Luke directed the crew, and men grabbed onto thick lines while others leapt into the shrouds and scrambled above.

  Noah watched them clamber with the confidence of monkeys up into the yards. His palms began to sweat, though his feet remained firmly planted on deck. Yes, he knew about fear. He knew about fear very well.

  Shaking it off, he raised his spyglass again, trying to determine the frigate’s intentions while keeping his mind off Miss Denton beside him and the way her curves filled out her gown. She’d always been a bit plump, while he decidedly preferred ladies of a more slender figure. Why then, did he find his gaze drawn toward her?

  “I hear they take no care for a sailor’s nationality or whether they ever served in the British navy,” she announced with conviction.

  “Pure rubbish, Miss Denton.” With glass still pressed to his eye, he kept his gaze locked on the frigate. Sailors scampered across her deck and yards, hauling all sails to the wind. Giving chase. Alarm rose within him.

  “Have you taken sides with our enemies, Captain?” Accusation stung in her voice.

  Sails thundered above him in an ominous boom.

  He faced her, making no attempt to hide his frustration. “I take no side, Miss Denton.”

  Her nose pinked and her eyes narrowed. “It is common knowledge that the British stop and board our ships and impress our sailors without cause. I would think you, of all people, would be angry at such an affront.”

  Ignoring her, he cuffed a hand over the back of his neck. “Let fall sheet home, hoist away royals and flying jib!” he bellowed across the deck, sending more men to their tasks. Why didn’t the blasted woman go below? “They have not attacked me. Consequently, I have no fight with them.”

  The ship creaked and groaned as it picked up speed. Miss Denton’s face whitened. She clung to the railing as if it were her only salvation. When the ship settled again, she righted herself, keeping both hands on the rail. “So it is all about you, then, Mr. Brenin—I mean, Captain? You care not a whit for your country.”

  Luke gazed at them both, a look of pure enjoyment on his face.

  Leveling the scope on the British frigate, Noah welcomed the reprieve from staring into th
ose brown eyes as sharp as spears.

  “We have the wind off our quarter, Captain,” Luke said. “They are losing ground.”

  Noah snapped the scope shut and angled a weary glance at Miss Denton. “My country, miss, has done naught but impede my merchant business with their blasted embargoes.” He studied the slight tilt of her nose. What would she know of sacrifice and hardship surrounded by luxury in her home? When she had never lifted a finger to work for any of her money.

  “You speak as a Federalist and a traitor, sir.” She pursed her lips and glanced at the British ship. “If they mean us no harm, then why do they chase us?”

  “I have no idea, nor do I intend to find out.” Noah’s blood boiled at her accusation. “And I am no traitor. I love my country as much as the next man.”

  The sharp censure in her eyes made him reconsider his words. Did he love his country? Truth be told, he’d been so busy making money, he’d never taken the time to ponder what America stood for nor how she differed from other nations.

  Miss Denton clenched her fists as if she intended to punch him. She shifted her gaze to Luke. “What is your opinion, Mr. Heaton? Do you love your country or are you more consumed with how she can help you make money?”

  “Nations come and go, Miss Denton.” Luke shrugged. “One must look out for oneself in this world.”

  The ship rose over a wave. The blue water surged onto the main deck before finding its escape through the scuppers back to sea. Miss Denton’s chest heaved. From anger or fear, Noah couldn’t tell. Still she managed to mumble. “I’m surrounded by Judases.”

  “That depends on your perspective.” Luke gave her a patronizing smile before he glanced off the stern. “They’ve given up, Captain.”

  “Very well. Strike the topsails, Mr. Heaton.” Noah doffed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. He faced Miss Denton, attempting to curtail his anger, but then he realized his plan was to do the opposite—to prove himself to be a beast.

  “Since you know nothing of the merchant business,” he began. “Nor of sailing, nor of the British Navy, nor even of work itself, might I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself and keep your person off my quarterdeck.”

  Her expression fell, and her bottom lip protruded ever so slightly. Though they had the intended effect, Noah immediately regretted his words. But he could see no other way to save them both from this unwanted marriage.

  “You have not changed at all, Noah Brenin.” The flicker of pain in her brown eyes disappeared, leaving them as hard and cold as polished agates. Swerving around, she moved away from him, gripping the railing all the way to the ladder then with careful movements she descended to the main deck.

  “And I thought I was the scoundrel aboard this ship.” Luke shook his head, uncharacteristic censure filling his eyes.

  Noah’s shoulders slumped beneath a press of guilt. “Surely that will convince her of my unworthiness as a husband.”

  “It convinced me.”

  “The man is a jingle-brained, bedeviled rogue,” Marianne grumbled as she made her way to the captain’s chamber … cabin, whatever it was called, later that evening for supper. Why, Lord, do You force me to marry such a man? Any other man would be better than this one.

  Pressing a hand over her stomach, she halted and leaned on the wall. The ship canted to the left, and she stumbled to the other side of the corridor. Swaying lanterns flung eerie shadows over the wooden planks that encased her like a coffin. Indeed, she felt as though she had died and gone to hell—a watery grave ruled by the evil King Noah, a man who was not only malicious but a traitor as well. How could she marry someone who did not share her love of country?

  She forced herself to continue. Though she would rather turn down Noah’s invitation to dine with him and his officers—knowing it only provided him further opportunity to play his cruel games. She also knew she could not gain any useful information about sabotaging the ship by sitting in her cabin. Which was why she intended to arrive several minutes before the scheduled time for supper. Perhaps she could discover something in the room to aid her cause, and if she got caught snooping around she had an excuse for being there.

  Gathering her breath, she peered around the open doorframe. In the midst of the cabin, an oblong table was set with pewter plates and mugs. Candles set in brass holders cast an icy glow over the silverware neatly placed beside each plate. A bowl of fruit and decanters of liquid stood at attention in the center of the table. Beyond it, through the stern windows, the setting sun trailed a red and orange ribbon across the horizon, even as tiny stars poked through the darkening sky above.

  She took a step inside and her eyes landed on Noah’s desk, pushed off to the side. She headed in that direction when an “Um hum” sounded from the corner. Her heart seized and she spun around to see Mr. Hobbs rising from a chair, a mug in hand.

  “Mr. Hobbs, I beg your pardon. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Quite alright, miss.” He dragged the hat from his head. “I didn’t mean t’ startle you.”

  Oh drat, how could she snoop around with him here? “I must have the time wrong. Am I early for dinner?”

  “Aye, just a bit.”

  “Where is No—the captain?” Marianne glanced out the door, uncomfortable at the thought of being alone with this man.

  “He went above for a bit, but he’ll be back soon.” He waved his hat at her and smiled as if sensing her ill ease. “Don’t let me cause you any discomfort, miss.”

  Marianne studied him. With arms and legs that seemed too muscular for his short body and his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, he appeared like an enormous bulldog. And just as ferocious until she looked in his gray eyes and found only kindness.

  “Your wife has been most gracious to me, Mr. Hobbs.”

  “Aye, she’s a good woman.”

  Marianne could not imagine the pairing. Where Agnes was jolly and friendly, Mr. Hobbs was serious and reserved. Where Agnes was rotund and soft, Mr. Hobbs appeared stiff and hard.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued, and Marianne turned to go. “I’ll return in a few minutes.”

  “Nay, miss, if you don’t mind. I’m glad we got this chance to talk.”

  Marianne cocked her head. “What do you wish to speak to me about, Mr. Hobbs?”

  “I overheard the captain speakin’ t’ you earlier. Up on deck.”

  She lowered her chin beneath a twinge as Noah’s callous words shot like arrows through her mind.

  “It is not like him, you see. I don’t want you thinkin’ ill of him. He’s like a son t’ me.”

  “Though I appreciate your concern I grow weary of everyone making excuses for his ill behavior.”

  Mr. Hobbs’s lips grew taut. “I don’t blame you for thinkin’ such. Just don’t give up on him yet.”

  “I have no intention of giving up on him, Mr. Hobbs.” Though not for the reasons he thought. Not because somewhere deep beneath Noah’s hard crust of cruelty, a speck of kindness survived, but instead because her mother’s life depended on it.

  Marianne glanced at the captain’s desk again. “I wonder, Mr. Hobbs if you would oblige me.”

  “I’d be happy to, miss.”

  “Since I am to be imprisoned on this ship for months, I’ve taken an interest in sailing and navigation. Could you point out the captain’s instruments and their function to me?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Hobbs threw back his shoulders and met her at the captain’s desk. “What would ye like to know?”

  Marianne pointed in turn at each instrument and asked its function and name, which Mr. Hobbs was more than eager to explain.

  “So what would happen if the captain’s charts were to be lost?”

  “He’d have t’ use the stars to guide him, I suppose.”

  “What about this one.” Marianne picked up the odd-looking brass triangle with the curved bottom. “The sextant, was it? What exactly is it used for again?”

  “Where’s the rum?” Mr. Heaton’s deep timbre fi
lled the room, and Marianne glanced toward the door, quickly setting the sextant back upon the desk. The first mate’s dark hair, tied behind him in a queue, matched the black breeches he’d donned. A white shirt, encased in a black waistcoat with gold embroidery completed his ensemble. “Forgive me, Miss Denton. I did not realize you had arrived already.” He gave her a roguish grin that he no doubt expected would send her heart fluttering. She squelched any such reaction. She knew his type. He was handsome and he knew it. And he used it to his advantage. Marianne had resigned herself long ago that she would never know how it felt to stir a man’s passions by the mere sight of her. And for the most part, she was happy for it.