The Secret of Her Guardian Sailor: An Inspirational Historical Romance Novel

by Chloe Carley

Rachel liked the way he laughed. His entire face lit up, and the sound came from deep within his chest—a pleasant, rumbling cadence that warmed her heart. She wished he could always be in such good humor, considering his natural state appeared to be one of stiff, distant gloom. Either that or snappish impatience. Indeed, she had come to enjoy these fleeting moments, when he seemed entirely at ease, no longer preoccupied with being a guard.

  “Mr. Sharpleton was just telling me that he might have some stories to regale us with,” Rachel said brightly, as they began to make their way down the gangway. Reaching the bottom, the wooden planks of the wharf-side quickly gave way to solid stone. In the baking sunlight, a blanket of dust had formed across the masonry while pools of seawater had evaporated into white patches of salt. The cool air smelled fresh and crisp as it whipped through her dark hair to the point where she could very well believe that it held healing properties. Already, her lungs felt cleansed—after three days cooped up in the cabin, it was most welcome.

  “I should like to hear some tales,” Nan replied. “Keep me distracted from all these aches and pains deep in me bones. That’s what three days sitting in the same chair for hours on end will do to folks.”

  Noah cast Rachel a shy look, as though he had never intended to fulfil his suggestion. “I was going to tell her about the Tower of Hercules,” he said, after a moment’s pause. He gestured to the prominent landmark, the brass buttons of his jacket straining. “There are two myths surrounding it, borne of this port’s split heritage—the Celtic with the Greco-Roman.”

  Rachel clasped her hands to her chest. “I did not know the Irish had come here. Whatever possessed them to sail all this way? Were they lost?”

  Noah chuckled. “They came to conquer, as all invading countries do.”

  “My goodness, how frightfully horrid.”

  “That is the nature of war, Miss Faulks.” His expression hardened, his eyes taking on a faraway quality. Rachel immediately wished she had not said a word about it. Clearly, talk of war troubled Noah, though she did not know him well enough to understand why. She contemplated asking but held her tongue; it was evident that he did not wish to discuss it.

  “You were saying,” Nan prompted, breaking the tension between them.

  He nodded but did not say another word, as they made their way down the stone pier and into the port itself. Dandelion padded along at Rachel’s side, the rope around her neck hanging loose. She had no desire to run from her new life—a fact that pleased Rachel greatly.

  Where Dublin and Liverpool had been positively stuffed with sailors and traders, A Coruña was much quieter. There were fewer ships in the harbor, the majority being fishing boats, and everyone seemed to be at their leisure. Sailors sat on the edge of the harbor wall, dangling their legs over the sandstone lip while devouring pots of fish stew, dredged with soft loaves of fresh bread. Rachel’s stomach rumbled at the sight and smell of heady herbs and spices, steeped in sweet, rich tomato sauce with chunks of plump fish swimming amongst colorful vegetables.

  “Are you hungry, Miss Faulks?” Noah asked, coming out of his silence.

  She nodded shyly. “A little.”

  “I’m ravenous!” Nan chimed in. “I could eat an entire horse if one were to trot by.”

  “Allow me to purchase lunch. We can take it up to the tower and eat it on the grass if you would like?”

  “How splendid,” Rachel replied, struggling to keep the overzealous note from her voice. In truth, she was bursting with excitement. She had never done anything so rustic and impulsive in all her days. There were always chaste picnics in the Bath summertime, but they took weeks to plan and an army of servants to execute. This was just the three of them doing as they pleased.

  Noah grinned and walked over to a nearby cart that was selling the ceramic pots of fish stew. Rachel listened to him talk in rapid-fire Spanish, rendered utterly awestruck by the effortless exchange. She had never expected Noah to be so cultured. While she could speak Latin, French, and some Italian, this was quite beyond her.

  The seller glanced over in surprise before turning back and muttering something. A moment later, the two men burst into a ripple of pleasant laughter. Rachel did not know what they were discussing, but she did not mind that the joke appeared to be at her expense. Noah was laughing and if she could keep him in good humor then she figured they might have a rather marvelous afternoon. He returned a few minutes later, brandishing a basket of sealed ceramic pots and three round loaves of fresh, crusty white bread. Rachel eyed the food eagerly, desperate for a taste of Galician cuisine.

  “Shall we?” he asked.

  “I think we shall,” Rachel replied.

  With the basket looped on his forearm, Noah led the way through the narrow, cobbled streets of the port-town. A steep incline took them toward the Tower of Hercules which was visible from just about anywhere in the township.

  That was not the most impressive thing, however. Everywhere she looked, Rachel found her breath taken away. The windows on all the houses were most peculiar, reminding her of the curved, balconette windows at the back of the Emerald. Indeed, they all looked as though they had been taken from ships and placed into the sides of these homes and buildings. Beautiful tiles decorated the masonry beside the curious windows while elegant carvings were etched into the stone. Even the poorest of the buildings were exquisitely decorated. It was all Rachel could do to keep walking in a straight line, as the sights continued to draw her gaze upward.

  “Why are the windows so strange?” she asked, finally unable to resist her curiosity.

  Noah glanced over his shoulder at her. “They are called galerías—glazed window balconies, designed to emulate naval architecture. The way they are built is supposed to keep out the bad weather that troubles the town in the winter months. Pretty, are they not?”

  “Very.”

  So, that is why they reminded me of the ship, she mused. I could rather get used to this—walking around, taking in new sights and sounds and smells, and purchasing luncheon from a cart by the water. It was less frantic here than the other ports with nobody trying to barge into her around every corner. Indeed, it had perfectly charmed her.

  They reached the Tower of Hercules a short while later. It was even more impressive at close quarters, dwarfing the trio with its sheer size. There were details that Rachel had not noticed on first inspection, including the small rectangles that were cut into the thick sandstone – some actual windows, some not – and the staggered levels at the very top. Meanwhile, a vast expanse of greenery led up to it, making it seem detached from A Coruña itself.

  She followed Noah and Nan as they selected a sheltered spot to the western side of the lighthouse itself—a perfect spot with a perfect view of the glistening Atlantic. Here, they sat down on the grass and each took a pot of stew and a loaf. Rachel felt positively giddy, sitting on naught but the skirt of her pale-blue gown.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Noah murmured, taking a hungry bite of his bread.

  “Very much so,” Rachel agreed. Tentatively, she lifted the lid of the ceramic pot and inhaled the flavorful scent of the fish stew—sweet and spicy all at once. She had never smelled anything like it. Compared to the food she was used to, this was entirely alien. Dipping the edge of her bread into it, she took her first bite. An explosion of taste sparked in her mouth, setting her taste buds alight. A unique blend of herbs and a kick of heat followed by the deep, almost meaty flavor of the tomatoes. And the fish… the fish was soft and sweet and succulent, falling apart as she put it in her mouth.

  It was only after she’d wolfed down half the pot that she realized Noah was looking at her. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You have a little stew, Miss Faulks, right there,” he said, tapping the corner of his mouth.

  Rachel blushed. “My goodness, I quite forgot my manners.” She hurriedly brushed away the offending splash with the corner of her handkerchief.

  “No need to apologize, Miss Faulks. It was not my intention t
o embarrass you,” he said apologetically. “Indeed, my intentions were quite the opposite. I wished to commend you for embracing a simpler way of life—from what I can see, it seems to suit you.”

  “My friends would be horrified if they could see me now,” she confessed, offering a shy smile.

  “Ah yes, they would likely not dare to do as you have done, would they?” he murmured, the coldness seeping back into his tone. “So many of you fine ladies sit at your fancy dinners and push a potato around the plate for the entire meal, attempting to fulfil the ideal of proper etiquette. Heaven forbid you should actually eat something. I imagine you are all ravenous by the time it is over.”

  Not for the first time, Rachel wondered what fine ladies like herself had done to accrue such disdain. Had he endured a bad experience? If he had, she reasoned that would explain every fiber of his curious behavior toward her. The young man was so very changeable. “I have always had an exceedingly healthy appetite,” she countered defiantly.

  His frosty gaze turned to her for a split-second, before he crumbled into merry laughter. “Then, Miss Faulks, perhaps you are the exception. Truly, I have never seen a refined young lady look lovelier than you did just then, with a spot of fish stew on your cheek.”

  She had grown used to his teasing temperament, but something in his words struck her unexpectedly. A warm flush crept across her cheeks, prompting her to turn her gaze away with the utmost haste. She did not want him to see her bashfulness.

  Nan chuckled nearby, as she slurped the last of her stew from the pot.

  “Might you tell us that story now, Mr. Sharpleton?” Rachel asked, urging her cheeks to cool.

  Noah nodded and lay back in the grass. “Now, where to begin…”

  Chapter Ten

  The trio basked in the Spanish sunshine as Noah began to tell the stories he’d heard as a sailor on his last trip here. It had been some years ago now, but the tales had stayed with him. No matter where he went, he loved to listen to the locals speak of their myths and legends, bringing magic to the mundane.

  “Years ago, when the world was filled with heroes and monsters, the great Hercules came to this far-off land to fight a vengeful foe. The giant Geryon, who had terrorized this nation for much too long,” he said, his voice carrying on the sea breeze. “They fought for three days and three nights, equally matched in vigor and skill. Hercules might have been a fierce warrior, but Geryon was a giant who had spent a lifetime killing men like Hercules. Being a demi-god gave him little advantage, for they were both of magical birth—Geryon, the son of Chrysaor and Callirrhoe, and the grandson of Medusa. He carried villainy in his veins. Whilst Hercules—well, he was descended from the most noble of the Greek gods, Zeus. Although, he cared little for them. After all, his mother was a simple human—Alcmene. A sweet woman tricked into Zeus’ desires.

  “They warred on this promontory and the ground trembled beneath the crash of fists and the thunder of each parrying blow. Many came to watch the fabled beings fight, but few were brave enough to remain for long. They feared they might get caught amongst the fray. Dawns rose, and nights fell, and the battle wore on. No clear winner emerged. Indeed, some feared the fighting might never end.

  “And then, as the light crept over the horizon on the third day, Hercules – exhausted and wounded – used the last arrow in his quiver. Dipped in the venomous blood of the Lernaean Hydra, he shot the arrow with such force that it pierced the forehead of the gargantuan giant. Geryon wilted like a flower, slumping to his knees, the spark of life fading from his eyes.”

  Rachel gaped at him, enraptured. “What happened next?”

  “Hercules took his sword and cleaved the giant’s head clean off his shoulders. In a gesture toward the Celtic heart of this place, he buried Geryon’s head with his weapons and ordered a city to be built on the burial site. A lasting legacy to the great battle that had raged there, and a nod of respect to the fallen giant.”

  “You said you had two stories,” Rachel urged, her eyes wide with excitement. Noah noted her enthusiasm with a ripple of amusement. There was something so enchantingly naïve about her; a giddy spark that he could not help but admire. He may not have liked the world that she came from, but he appreciated the sheltered innocence that it had granted her. If he had his way, every young lady would have the same gift. They would not be permitted to see cruelty or despair or tragedy before their time. They would have only happiness and merriment and awe in their lightened hearts.

  “Well, there is a different tale,” he replied. “A myth perpetuated by the Celtic history of this place.”

  She nodded effusively. “Go on…”

  “It tells the tale of King Breogán—the man who founded the Galician Celtic nation. He was a noble man, descended from Adam, and down through the sons of my namesake—Noah,” he said, sitting up so he could see Rachel better. Nan had drifted off to sleep, curled up like a child close by. He thought about waking her, but she looked too content to disturb.

  “Yes,” Rachel chirped. She did not seem to mind that her chaperone had fallen asleep, leaving the pair almost entirely alone together. It did, however, make Noah feel somewhat unsettled. He had never been alone with any woman before, aside from his mother.

  “Breogán and his people, known as the Gaels, wandered the Earth for four-hundred and forty years, in search of a land they might call home,” Noah continued. “They underwent great suffering along the way, before building boats and sailing here, to these fair shores. Breogán founded a city and called it Brigantia—the old city is no longer and all that remains is this tower. Nobody knows what happened to Brigantia.”

  “Why did he build such a tower? Was it a lighthouse, even then?”

  “Well, it is said that he constructed this vast tower so that his sons might be able to see the distant, emerald shores of an unknown isle. That first glimpse prompted them to set sail for Ireland, following the same route that we have sailed these past three days,” he said, with a hint of fondness. “As legend would have it, Breogán’s sons stayed in Ireland and are the Celtic ancestors of those who reside there now. From the Gaels came the Gaelic tongue and the traditions that go with it.”

  Rachel frowned. “Gaelic tongue?”

  “A language spoken by the Irish.”

  “They spoke English when we landed in Dublin.”

  He chuckled to himself. “You have to leave the cities to find the Gaelic speakers. Although, you might have found a Gaelic speaker or two had you left the ship for anything other than the rescue of Dandelion.” The Irish wolfhound pricked up her ears. She’d polished off the remaining stew in everyone’s bowls and had been lying contentedly on the grass.

  “I am endlessly grateful that you saved her for me, Mr. Sharpleton.” Rachel glanced up at him before sending her shy gaze elsewhere.

  “I am glad that you persuaded me,” he replied. “In three days, she has made the ship seem a far homelier sort of place. I miss the company of dogs sometimes.”

  Rachel looked back at him. “You had one?”

  “Once upon a time. Her name was Badger. A mix of many breeds, but I adored her as if she were pedigree.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Noah’s heart clenched at the memory. “I had to go away to sea. When I came back… well, she was gone.”

  “Someone took her?” Rachel gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

  “I wish they had,” he said solemnly. “What I mean to say is—when I returned, she had died. I left her with a friend, but she got sick soon after a went away. By all accounts, she pined away at the loss of me.”

  Dandelion got up off her haunches and ambled over to Noah putting her head in his lap. He glanced down at her with sad eyes and ruffled her tufty gray fur. Dogs never failed to surprise him with their compassion. How do you know? he wondered. How do you feel sadness and know just what to do?

  “I am sorry, Mr. Sharpleton.”

  “As am I, Miss Faulks. Dandelion is a rather lovely substitute, ho
wever. You chose well.”

  She beamed with happiness, though a hint of melancholy lingered in her dark eyes. “I hope she may bring you as much comfort as she brings me. Somehow, with her on the ship, I really do feel less afraid.”

  “That is good to hear, Miss Faulks.” He stared out at the open ocean, realizing they did not have much longer left on dry land. “Now, what would you say to a closer look at the tower?”

  “I should like that very much.”

  “Might you wake Nan?” he asked. “You have a gentler hand than I.”

  He got up and wandered toward the base of the tower. He knew very well that he could have woken Nan, but he needed a moment to gather himself. It was not often that he let his emotions get the better of him. However, talk of his beloved girl had forced potent sadness through his veins. After his mother’s death, Badger had been the only warm, loving thing he’d possessed in all the world. Even now, he struggled to live with the remorse of what he’d done—she had relied on him and needed him as much as he had needed her. And he had left her all alone. She had pined away because he had abandoned her to a friend. A gut-wrenching notion made all the worse in knowing that she would not have understood.