I’m having an adventure. And I’m enjoying it.
Captain Merrick was selecting another piece of fruit, the name of which Rhiannon would have been hard-pressed to identify, but instead of putting it on his own plate, he leaned over and gallantly put it on hers.
She looked at it dubiously. “And what is this?”
“Pawpaw, Miss Evans.”
“I . . . see.”
She had no idea how to eat it.
Captain Merrick was watching her.
She glanced in panic around the table; Sir Graham was conversing with his flag captain, Maeve was talking to Alannah, and Rhiannon was on her own, trapped here with a strange piece of fruit she had no idea how to go about eating.
Now what?
“Have you never tried pawpaw before, Miss Evans?”
She looked up into those amused green eyes and hoped the blush that was heating her blood wasn’t showing up on her face. What a ninny he must think her!
“I confess, Captain Merrick, that I have not.”
Smiling, he stood up and then, leaning down right next to and somewhat over her, so near that his clean, faintly exotic scent filled her nostrils, picked up the small paring knife next to her plate, his arm—decently clad in a loose white shirt now but oh, she knew, God help her, she knew what the muscles under that shirt looked like after seeing him earlier!—just inches from her cheek. Rhiannon looked down at his long, suntanned fingers, deftly cutting the fruit in half, and took a deep and trembling breath. How on earth was she going to get through this meal, let alone the rest of the evening, with such a distraction as Connor Merrick sitting right next to her?
Forget him. He probably has a lady friend. He probably has lots of lady friends—
“There,” he said, and looking down, Rhiannon saw that he’d cut up the fruit and arranged its seeds on her plate in the shape of a smile.
She felt her lips quivering in laughter. He had a sense of humor, and she liked that.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, but not before he reached down, plucked the nose from the middle of his little design, and popped it into his mouth, watching her in high amusement the whole time.
“My pleasure, madam.”
She had no idea what to say to him, and knew that anything she attempted was going to come out sounding foolish. But she tried, anyhow.
“Did you go swimming after we left?” she blurted.
Yes, it definitely had come out sounding foolish.
“Aye, that I did.”
Rhiannon looked down at her plate, eager to try the fruit but not quite wanting to change, destroy or rearrange the design that he had made. “I wish I knew how to swim.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“And what am I missing, Captain?”
“Beautiful fish, seen up close. Coral reefs. The occasional shark—”
“Shark!”
He leaned close, too close, and murmured, for her ears alone, “I could teach you to swim, you know.”
Rhiannon’s mouth dropped open and her blood was suddenly too hot for the confinement of her veins. Once again she wished, desperately, for a fan.
Connor Merrick simply looked at her, one brow raised, smiling a wicked little smile.
With a trembling hand, she reached for her spoon. “And where did you learn how to swim, Captain?”
“My siblings and I grew up in Newburyport, Massachusetts, on the Merrimack River,” he said. “My father, even though he came up through the Royal Navy where sailors aren’t encouraged to learn the art, is a fine swimmer himself and insisted that the three of us learn to swim, and to swim well.”
“Your father is Royal Navy?”
Captain Merrick gave a little laugh. “My father was the most famous privateer of the Revolution,” he said, proudly. “For the American side.”
“But you just said—”
“He started out in the Royal Navy, aye, but one thing led to another and he ended up fighting for the Yankees,” he said, wickedly plucking the eyebrow from Rhiannon’s design of fruit and popping it into his mouth. “I was raised on tales of his derring-do, acts of daring, and triumphs.”
“They weren’t tales, Uncle Connor!” said young Ned, who had gotten up and come around the table to be with the uncle he idolized. “Mama says that they are true, every one of them.”
“And so they are, lad,” said Connor, lifting the child to sit on his lap. “And if your grandpapa was the most famous privateer of the last war, your uncle Connor here is going to be the most famous privateer of the current one, you just watch and see.”
“Not in my waters you won’t be,” warned Sir Graham once again, from down the table.
Captain Merrick just laughed. “Blind eyes are wonderfully useful, especially when turned the other way.”
“I turned a blind enough eye, Connor, to your doings while back in Portsmouth, but my patience goes only so far, especially here. Don’t think I won’t move to have that schooner seized and given back to your sister if you don’t behave yourself.”
“I always behave myself. Until, of course, it behooves me not to.”
Sir Graham had been wearing a tolerant smile; now, it faded in the face of the younger man’s blithe challenge. From down the table, the perfectly-composed Captain Lord raised a dark brow, eyed his American cousin with a disdainful, barely perceptible shake of his head, and turned his attention back to his meal.
Rhiannon thought it time to intervene. “I think, Captain Merrick,” she said, feeling a bit wicked and certainly scandalous, “that I would very much like to learn how to swim. When can we start?”
The American speared another piece of fruit on his little wooden skewer, put it into his mouth, and gave her a look that made her feel like a rabbit being sized up by a wolf. “Any time you’d like.”
Chapter 6
Well, well, Connor thought to himself as he bowed over the hand of the lovely Miss Evans, bade his sister and brother-in-law goodnight, and gave a parting shot to his too-stuffy-for-his-own-good English cousin, that had certainly been a most interesting evening.
He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, deliberately choosing the seat next to the girl and allowing himself to respond to her in ways he’d been determined to defy. What in tarnation was wrong with him? She was young and unspoiled, and he’d have had to be blind not to notice that she had been hanging on his every word, sliding covert glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, and that her bright green eyes had been sparkling like stars on a cold winter night every time he turned to talk to her. He knew better than to encourage such an impressionable young girl. He knew better. But he had gone and done it anyhow.
It was just an innocent flirtation, his conscience told him.
But no, it wasn’t. He was old enough to know that, and he shouldn’t be encouraging her down a road he had no intention of joining her on. But he hadn’t been any more immune to her closeness than she’d been to his, had been unable to stop his own impulsive reactions to her, and a big part of him had basked in the looks of infatuation, the coy glances from beneath her long lashes, the way her lips had twitched when he’d baited Sir Graham.
You shouldn’t have paid her so much attention. She fancies you, and you know it. But you don’t have time to be chasing skirts. You’re a Yankee privateer, and there’s no room in your life for a romance or, God forbid, a wife.
Nothing good or possible could come of this. Nothing.
And if he knew any better, he’d take Kestrel out of Carlisle Bay as soon as he collected his crew from Bridgetown’s taverns and houses of ill repute, and get back to work.
Work.
Just the thing he ought to be doing to take his mind off certain young Welsh beauties.
He had no intention of “behaving himself,” as Sir Graham had put it, in “his” waters. The admiral might be his brother-in-law but he was British, and it had been the British that had made most of the past year of Connor’s life a living, excruciating he
ll with his incarceration aboard the prison hulk Surrey in Portsmouth Harbor following the humiliating loss of Merrimack. Though he didn’t consider himself a vengeful or unforgiving man, he had seen such unspeakable things and witnessed such suffering that the idea of taking as many British prizes as possible and sending them back into American ports did not plague his conscience.
Already, insurance rates on British shipping were rumored to be three times higher than normal, thanks to the actions of American privateers. The cost of goods in England had skyrocketed, and it was Connor’s fervent hope that it would rise even more before the cries of protest from the English populace would convince its government to abandon this war against Britain’s former colonies.
But not until he and others like him could profit from it. There were slower ways for a man to find his fortune than hitting it lucky as a privateer.
And he knew he had more than just luck on his side. His father, the one man in the world that Connor idolized and looked up to, had designed and built the schooner Kestrel back in 1778 as a privateer for the American side in that decisive and patriotic war between England and her soon-to-be former colonies. Back then the schooner had been considered a vessel ahead of its time, with her low freeboard and lean, predatory lines, her rapine, sharply raked masts, her distinctive square topsail and her jib-boom that went on forever. His father had made Kestrel, and Kestrel had made his father, and it was time, Connor reckoned, that Kestrel made him.
No, he had no intention of honoring British admiral Sir Graham’s requests.
He thought again of Miss Evans, and how the candlelight had made her lively eyes all the more enchanting. He thought of the fresh, lemony scent of her hair, the forbidden valley between her high, firm breasts that he couldn’t help seeing, didn’t want to help seeing, when he’d leaned over her and helped her with the pawpaw. It had been all he could do not to lean in a little closer and whisper something suggestive in her pretty little ear to see if he could pull another blush out of her.
Thank God he’d managed some semblance of control.
Ah, well. He’d stay another day for the benefit of his sister’s family, especially little Ned. He’d be polite to Miss Evans and he wouldn’t encourage her any more than he’d already foolishly done. He’d be the perfect gentleman privateer, and then he’d make sail and hightail it out of here before things got too complicated. In short, he would. . . .
Behave himself.
His sense of balance restored, Connor’s mood brightened considerably. He had left one of Kestrel’s two boats pulled up on the beach and now he pushed it out into the surf, climbed in and took up the oars and, tipping his head back to look at the thousands of stars scattered across the inverted black bowl of the night sky, whistled jauntily as he rowed himself back to the schooner.
Funny, how resolve could restore good spirits.
“Ahoy, there, Kestrel!”
A face appeared over the rail, dimly lit by the glow of a lantern hung in the shrouds. It was Jacques, standing the midnight watch. “Welcome back, Capitaine. I trust your dinner with the admiral and your sister went well?”
“Well enough, Jacques.”
Another form melted out of the darkness as Connor hauled himself over the rail.
“You’re back early.”
“And you’re up late, Nathan. I hope Toby hasn’t turned in for the night . . . I owe him a chess match.”
“He’s in your cabin with the board all laid out and ready.” And then, in a quieter voice, “Thanks for not keeping him waiting . . . you know he hangs on your ever word, Con.”
Connor smiled. He was tired, and he might have sought his own bunk after a day in the hot tropical sun, but he knew his young cousin all but idolized him and he would not disappoint him. The lad was only fourteen, thin and freckled and sensitive in nature, though there were flashes of his father Matthew’s Yankee scrappiness in the youngster’s temperament that pleased Connor to no end. Though Toby served as Kestrel’s midshipman, Connor had always thought he was better suited to study law or medicine, but he was an Ashton and determined to measure up to his brother and Merrick cousins as best he could.
Forward, the bell rang out, signaling the end of the watch. Jacques saluted his captain and then Nathan, who had come up to relieve him of the deck, and headed off below.
“I suppose you charmed the stockings off the poor girl,” Nathan murmured, leaning his elbows on the rail and gazing out into the night where boats, small craft and large vessels, all of them dwarfed by Sir Graham’s big flagship, were beginning to turn in the tide.
“She’s too young for me. But I confess, she’s caught my eye in a way I wish she hadn’t.”
“Don’t think she’s the one for you, Con. You ought to find yourself a good Yankee lass, not an Englishwoman whose country we’re at war with.”
“She’s not English, she’s Welsh.”
“Doesn’t change the fact we’re still at war with her country.”
“No, it does not, but you and I both know nothing will come of it, Nathan. I don’t have time for a dalliance. We’ll only stay here long enough to scrape the weed from the old lady’s bottom, get her provisioned for a short cruise, and then we’re off. A man isn’t going to get rich sitting around in the harbor.”
“Nay, he won’t. But don’t break her heart, Con.”
“We won’t be here long enough for that to happen. And oh, speaking of getting rich, did you find out anything about that convoy?”
“Aye. A good two dozen ships are already harboring in St. Vincent and getting ready to make sail back to England. Carrying quite a cargo between them, too. They’ll be well armed, Con.”
“I’m not worried about it. Don’t tell me that you are, either.”
“Just saying.”
“Right. Maybe a short cruise westward is in order within the next day or so. And now, I’m off . . . far be it from me to keep your little brother waiting.”
# # #
Unable to sleep, Rhiannon was also still up at that late hour.
The verandah ran along the entire rear of the second floor of Sir Graham’s beautiful island home, and her bedroom opened out onto this lovely place at which to sit, sip a glass of punch, and gaze up at what had to be a million stars above her head. Down in the harbor she could see the twinkling lights of ships at anchor, and wished she knew which one of them was his ship.
Connor Merrick.
Just whispering his name made her blood glow with warmth and she smiled softly to herself, remembering again his sense of humor as he’d arranged the fruit on her plate in a little smiling face, and how his very nearness had made her feel inside: all hot and gushy and nervous and alive.
She wondered if he was thinking of her, as she was of him—or if he had cast her out of his mind the minute he’d bid her good night and taken his leave. She wondered if he had gone back to his beautiful ship, or if he had some kept woman, here in port. She wondered if she would see him again on the morrow.
And she wondered if he really intended to teach her how to swim.
Maybe Connor Merrick wasn’t actually serious, after all.
Maybe he’d just said that in order to make conversation, and be just a little bit of a rogue at the same time.
And then she remembered the way he had looked at her.
Maybe not.
She wished her sister Gwyneth was here to guide her.
On the other hand, perhaps it was best that she was not.
# # #
Early the next morning, Rhiannon opened her eyes to morning sunshine and a deliciously mild breeze that swept in through the windows, through the mosquito netting of her bed of polished Barbadian mahogany, and across her pillow.
Her night had been a restless one, filled with dreams that left her body hot and wanting, and her first thoughts were of Connor Merrick.
She was instantly awake.
She lay there for a moment wondering if the rest of the household was up yet, but the hour was early, and
she could hear nothing beyond the swish and crackle of the coconut palms just outside her window.
She thought about summoning the servant that Lady Falconer had assigned her last night, but she didn’t want to disturb the girl if she, too, were still abed, and she had a sudden urge to explore a little before her time was no longer her own.
She performed her morning ablutions, tied her hair back with a piece of ribbon, and choosing a simple pastel blue gown of sprigged cotton and a broad-brimmed hat to shade her face from the sun, crept quietly downstairs.
There was a small figure sitting there on the bottom step, an oversized and old-fashioned cocked hat on his dark head and a toy sword in his hand.
Smiling, Rhiannon sat down beside the would-be pirate.
“Good morning, Ned,” she murmured, to Sir Graham’s and Lady Falconer’s eldest.
“Good morning, Miss Evans,” the boy said sullenly.
“Are we the first ones up?”
“Aye. Papa told me he’d take me down to the beach today to look for pirate treasure. But I’m so excited that I couldn’t sleep.”
“Is there truly pirate treasure in these waters, Ned?”
“Papa thinks so. But it will be hours yet before he rises, finishes his breakfast and morning paperwork, meets with Captain Lord as he does every morning, and brings me down to the beach.”
“I see,” said Rhiannon, thinking. And then: “Do you think your papa would be terribly upset if you and I were to go down to the beach together right now, and perhaps we could look for pirate treasure ourselves?”
The boy instantly brightened. “I don’t think he would mind at all, Miss Evans.”
“Please, call me Rhiannon. But I think you should certainly ask your papa if he would mind. I would not like to draw the ire of a man who is both my host and one of the most famous admirals in the Royal Navy!”
“Sir Graham will not mind at all,” said a voice, and glancing up, Rhiannon found herself looking into the striking gold eyes of the admiral’s wife. Maeve, looking fresh, rested, and much improved in mood from the previous evening, was beautiful and alluring despite the fact that her belly was heavy with child. She leaned down to kiss the brow of her gangly, dark-haired, son. “In fact, Ned, why don’t you take the little rowboat out into the harbor and see if you can catch us something for dinner tonight?” She gave Rhiannon a secretive wink. “Maybe, while waiting for a fish to bite your hook, you might spy some pirate treasure just sitting on the bottom.”
Lord Of The Sea Page 6