Surrender the Heart

by Marylu Tyndall

  The ship rose then plunged over a swell. Seawater misted over her. Normally, she would find it refreshing from the heat, but to her, it seemed like spit from the mouth of a monster.

  Mr. Weller’s hand pressed against her back to steady her. Though she rarely allowed any man such liberties, she appreciated his strong support and felt no threat from his touch.

  “So you see, there’s naught to be ‘fraid of. Unless we end up in a battle with a warship.” He chuckled. “Unlikely since we are simple merchantmen.”

  “Then why does the captain arm the ship?” Marianne gestured behind her toward the three cannons that lined the top deck on each side and the two that perched off the stern.

  “Just for defense, miss, I assure ye.”

  Marianne released a ragged sigh. It sounded as if the only way to prevent Noah from reaching England would be an enemy attack. And even if she could arrange that, it wouldn’t bode well for any of them. Her hope dwindling, she gazed out at sea, squinting at the setting sun. Perspiration slid down her back. Out there, beyond the sun, was her precious country, her precious city, her precious home. And every swell they traversed meant they were that much farther away. Mother, I’m trying to come home. Fear tightened her chest. Would Lizzie be able to care for Mama without Marianne? Who would do the cooking, the mending? Who would administer Mama’s medicines? She faced Mr. Weller and offered a conciliatory half smile.

  “Indeed, Mr. Weller, it does sound as though the ship is indestructible.”

  “Aye, as I’ve told you. Unless we come under attack or a squall disables the rudder, ain’t nothing will stop us from reaching our destination.”

  “The rudder? How would I … I mean how could that happen?”

  He leaned on the railing. The sails above cast half of his face in shadows while the sun cast a golden glint on the other half. His brown eyes so full of life found hers. With a strong jaw and cheekbones, he could be considered a handsome man, if one could ignore his scars. Which she found increasingly easy to do. And he was young. She guessed he couldn’t be older than thirty years.

  “A shot to the rudder would do it.” He smiled. “Or running aground during a storm, or by the strain o’ a storm on the wheel. Or I suppose someone could chop through the tiller ropes, but I don’t see why anyone aboard would do that.”

  “Why not?” Marianne dared not hope.

  “That would leave us unable to steer, save by the sails, and that would be difficult.” He glanced above. “O’ course that can be repaired right quick.”

  She bit her lip. “Then it seems as though we are destined for England.”

  “The captain’s a driven man when he’s got a cargo full of goods. No, I expect the only thing that would turn ‘im around is if he lost his cargo somehow and had nothin’ to sell.”

  Lost his cargo.

  Marianne’s heart leapt. She smiled. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that? What reason would Noah have to continue to England if he had no goods to sell?

  If his precious cargo met with some unforeseen disaster?

  CHAPTER 8

  M arianne ran the back of her sleeve over her moist forehead and stared at the soup bubbling atop the iron stove. She wanted to assist Agnes—still taken to her bed—by preparing the evening meal. But in light of the strange odor wafting up from the gurgling slop in the copper kettle, she was beginning to regret that decision. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t cooked before. After her mother dismissed most of the servants, Marianne had taken up the duty of preparing the meals. But she’d done so in a well-equipped kitchen, not in a dark, cramped ship’s galley with only a smidgen of spices and foods to use in the preparation of her meal.

  Ignoring the sweat streaming down her back, she grabbed a cloth and opened the oven door where several whole chickens roasted on spits over the fire. Hot air blasted over her, carrying with it a juicy, spicy fragrance that made her mouth water. At least the chicken would taste good. She silently thanked God that she hadn’t been forced to slaughter the poor birds herself. Mr. Weller had gladly assigned that duty to one of the sailors.

  Closing the oven door, Marianne took a step back, if only to remove herself from the heat for a second, and bumped into the preparation table. How did Agnes, a much larger woman than Marianne, work in such tight quarters?

  She sensed, rather than heard someone watching her and looked up. Mr. Heaton leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. He smiled. “Smells delicious.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Heaton.” Marianne returned his smile, ignoring the slight quiver of unease at his presence. “I am hoping the taste will agree with the smell.” She studied the tall, muscular man. His hair, as dark as a starless night, was so at odds with his clear blue eyes. Eyes that took her in as if she were some strange apparition.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. The soothing smell of baked dough swirled about her nose, and she jumped. “Oh no, my biscuits!” Using the cloth still in her hand, she removed the oven tray and turning, dumped the browned biscuits into a large basket. At least she hadn’t managed to burn this set. She dropped the tray to the table and began plopping dough onto it for the next batch.

  “Is there something you want, Mr. Heaton? I am quite busy at the moment.” Though he had given her no cause for alarm and had always been cordial, his reputation among the ladies in Baltimore as a libertine and a rogue made her stomach clench in his presence—especially since she found herself alone with him.

  “Just surprised to find you here, miss.” His deep voice held no malice. “Noah led me to believe you hadn’t done a day’s work in your life.”

  Marianne sighed. That had been true of her once—a lifetime ago, before her father died. “Noah knows very little about me.”

  He stepped forward and reached to pluck one of the biscuits from the basket. Without thinking, Marianne slapped his wrist, her anger overcoming her reason, for she didn’t know whether Mr. Heaton was a man one could slap—even playfully—without repercussions. To add to her discomfiture, the distinct smell of rum filled the air between them. She knew the smell. Knew it quite well, along with the memories it invoked of her father.

  Relief came, however, when Mr. Heaton chuckled, his mirth reaching his blue eyes with a twinkle. “Noah knows little about you? I would say that to be true of you, as well, regarding him.”

  “I’ve known Noah since I was five and he was six. Can you attest to the same?”

  “No, but these past five years I’ve lived in these quarters with him for months at a time. Can you attest to the same?”

  Marianne could see why women’s hearts fluttered at his rakish grin that was both sensuous and charming.

  “I cannot imagine how you have suffered his company that long.” She snorted.

  He chuckled and rubbed the scar on his right ear. “Or he mine.”

  She cocked her head. Though appearing the rake in every way, she sensed something deeper within him—a kindness, a genuineness— that set her at ease. “Do you enjoy life at sea, Mr. Heaton?”

  “I do. There’s freedom here on these waves, miss. And adventure. You never know what will happen. Take you, for instance. Who would have guessed you’d be sailing with us on the crossing.”

  “Yes, I quite agree with you on that.” Marianne plucked a ladle from its hook and stirred the fish soup. “So you crave freedom and adventure. What else stirs your soul, Mr. Heaton?”

  “Wealth.” His answer came too quickly. Too resolutely.

  Marianne huffed her disappointment. “Indeed? What of charity, kindness, loyalty, honor? Have they no place in your life?”

  He shrugged. “They do not fill empty bellies.”

  “And your belly is all that concerns you?” She looked his way, wondering if her blunt comment would prick his ire. But he only returned a grin.

  “At the moment, yes.” He eyed the biscuits. “I am quite hungry.”

  “Then you have come to the right place.” Marianne plucked one and handed it to him.

  H
e took it and lifted his brows. “Thank you, miss. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Do you have family in Baltimore, Mr. Heaton?” she asked.

  He swallowed the bite of biscuit in his mouth. The usual cocky expression faded from his face. “My parents are dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” Marianne stepped toward him, the soup dripping from the ladle onto the floor. She knew well the pain of losing a parent.

  He lifted his gaze, shifting his eyes between hers—eyes filled with pain and the slight glaze of alcohol, eyes that instantly hardened. “No need. It was a long time ago.”

  “But that kind of pain can last for years.”

  He jerked his hair behind him then lowered his chin.

  Grabbing a cloth, Marianne knelt to clean up the spilled soup, chiding herself for prying into this man’s personal life.

  “How is your wound?” he asked.

  Rising, Marianne felt the bandage wrapped around her head. Aside from an occasional itch, she’d all but forgotten it was there. “It gives me no pain.”

  He chuckled. “I heard it was Seafoam who lured you into your trap below.”

  “My father always told me my love for animals would cause trouble for me.” She smiled then sorrow gripped her at the memory.

  She cleared her throat and began spooning biscuit dough onto another tray.

  “That cat is a smart one,” he said. “I’ll warrant she knew exactly what she was doing.”

  Marianne’s hand halted in midair. “What the devil do you mean, sir? I am now a prisoner aboard this ship. How could that be a smart thing to cause?”

  Her outburst bore no effect on his insolent grin. “You are good for him.”

  Lifting the tray, she opened the oven and shoved it inside, slamming the door with a clank. “For whom?” He gave her a devilish smile.

  “Noah?” She swung back to the stove to examine the soup. “Absurd. He hates me and I him.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Oh, really? What of Priscilla?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “That vain peacock? She’s nothing but an empty box wrapped in ribbons and lace.”

  “So she is beautiful?” Marianne stirred the soup a little too vigorously. Why did she care?

  “Very. But she is a bore, if you ask me.”

  Marianne didn’t want to ask him. Didn’t want to hear any more about the silly woman.

  “Supper will be ready in a few minutes, Mr. Heaton.”

  “I’ll call Mr. Hobbs to gather the messmen, miss.” He plopped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, gave her a wink, and left.

  “Dinner is served.”

  Noah glanced up from his desk to see Luke entering the room with Matthew scrambling in behind him, carrying a tray of steaming food.

  “Have you heard of knocking?”

  “Not when we bring such delicious fare.” Luke kicked the door shut as Matthew set the tray on top of Noah’s charts. The savory scent of chicken and the aroma of fresh biscuits filled Noah’s nose and he licked his lips. “I thought your wife was still indisposed.”

  “Aye, that she is.” Matthew and Luke exchanged an odd glance.

  “Then am I to assume that she prepared this food from her bed?” Noah stood, irritation grinding his nerves at whatever secret the two men shared.

  Luke lifted his brows, a mischievous look on his face. “Miss Denton cooked the meal tonight.”

  Noah allowed the words to needle through his mind, seeking a thread of reason. He dropped his gaze to the plateful of glazed brown chicken and two biscuits. Beside it, a spicy fish scent spiraled upward from a bowl of steaming soup. His mouth watered.

  “Quite tasty if you ask me.” Matthew licked his lips.

  “Miss Denton made this?” Noah eyed them both curiously.

  Luke crossed his arms over his chest. “I saw her myself.”

  Tearing a piece of chicken from the bone, Noah tossed it in his mouth. Tender, moist, and somewhat flavorful. “Astonishing.”

  “Though not as good as your wife’s cooking, Matthew, this is certainly satisfying, especially since I thought I would go hungry tonight.” Noah bit into a biscuit, surprised when he found a buttery soft texture within the hard crust.

  Seafoam nudged his arm and meowed.

  “Even the cat knows good cookin’ when she sees it.” Matthew laughed.

  Noah picked up Seafoam, scratched her head, then set her down on the deck. “Go below and find a rat to gnaw on. This meal is mine.”

  “Not bad for a woman who never did an ounce of work her entire life.” Luke’s voice rang with sarcasm.

  A vision of blistered hands invaded Noah’s thoughts. Who was Miss Denton? Certainly not the spoiled little chit who would go crying to her mama whenever a speck of dirt appeared on her dress. Certainly not the princess who would call a servant over to pick up a handkerchief she had dropped. And then snub her nose at Noah when the maid instantly complied. Either this Miss Denton was not Miss Denton at all, but an imposter, or she deserved a chorus of cheers for such a convincing performance.

  Marianne shot up in bed, her heart pounding. Had she overslept? So exhausted after cooking for hours, she’d fallen onto her mattress in the hopes of getting a few hours’ sleep before putting her plan into motion. Dashing to the porthole, she searched for any hint of dawn, but the night still hung its dark curtain over the sea. A myriad of stars winked at her as if prodding her onward. She must make her way down to the hold to discover a way to ruin Noah’s cargo. Even as the thought sparked her to action, guilt rapped on the door of her conscience. But she would not answer. She couldn’t. Her mother’s life depended on it. Besides, when she and Noah married, Noah would have all the wealth he needed, and he wouldn’t need to work so hard. She was actually doing him a favor.

  Striking flint to steel, she lit the lantern on the table, then tucked a knife she’d taken from the kitchen into the pocket of her gown.

  She swung the door open, cringed at the loud squeak echoing off the bulkheads, then tiptoed out into the hallway, or companion-way, whatever it was called. She listened for any sounds from sailors who might still be about, but nothing but the bone-chilling creaks and groans of the ship and the rush of water against its hull met her ears. From what she had observed, most of the men slept through the night in a section beneath the forecastle by the bow, while the other half kept watch on the top deck, the two groups switching every four hours. Noah’s officers slept in separate cabins.

  Which meant Marianne could slip into the hold undetected.

  Lifting the lantern, she made her way down the steep ladder, and thought to say a prayer for her success, but then decided against it. Though God rarely answered her prayers, she was sure this was a petition He would not only refuse to answer but would frown upon.

  The narrow steps creaked and bowed with each footfall. Moisture formed on her neck and arms. At the bottom of the ladder, Marianne scanned the dark hallway to her left and recognized the door of the cursed room that had entrapped her aboard this ship in the first place. The stench of mold, stale water, and something akin to rotten eggs assailed her, and she flung a hand to her nose. Nausea waged a battle in her stomach.

  When it passed, she lifted the lantern and scanned the area to her right. Another set of stairs descended to an open lower level stacked to the ceiling with crates, barrels, and huge sacks.

  Gathering her courage, she inched down the final ladder. The pitter-pat of tiny feet filled the hold, sounding like raindrops on a roof. Drat. Marianne froze. Rats. Oh Lord, maybe I will pray after all. If You are so inclined, Lord, please keep the filthy beasts away from me. At the bottom, she took a step over the pebbles scattered across the hold floor. The light from her lantern arched before her like a golden shield. Long, furry tails disappeared in the dark gaps between the crates.

  She trembled. Resisting the urge to turn around and run to the safety of her cabin, she swallowed her fears and continued onward. She had no choice. For you, Mama. If you could see me now, you’
d be so proud of me. Unlike Papa who rarely had a kind word for her unless he was well into his cups.

  Perspiration slid down her back and dotted her forehead. The sea pounded against the sides of the ship as if it knew what she was about and wanted to stop her. Could it break through the wooden hull and grab her? Mr. Weller had said no.

  Several barrels of water and rum sat within easy reach of the bottom of the ladder. But she was not interested in those. Placing one foot in front of the other, she inched her way down an incline to a lower section. Once there, she began examining the crates one by one. As far as she could tell, most were filled with iron tools and fabric. She moved to another section of barrels. Water and rum for the journey no doubt. But it was the sacks that interested her the most. Flour from the mills at Jones’s falls in Baltimore and rice from Charleston.