The boy looked at her uncertainly for a moment, confused about this veiled exchange between his uncle and his father’s flag captain. But there was nothing, really, for him to do but bow, smile, and agree to accompany her and Captain Lord back to shore.
Chapter 9
Connor stood at the rail, carefully overseeing the departure of Miss Evans from the ship, his hands sure and steady upon the rope that eased her, safely seated in the bosun’s sling, down toward the damned Royal Navy boat in which Delmore waited to receive her.
Connor was smiling, but inside, his guts were twisting with frustration and something he identified as jealousy. He thought he was quite adept at hiding his dismay but his cousin knew him well.
“Ain’t sitting well with you, is it?” Nathan asked, lifting his hat to Miss Evans as she looked up at them both and offered an apologetic smile.
“It damn well isn’t,” Connor growled, thinking of the sweet smile she’d bestowed upon Deadly Dull-more. “But no matter. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her. She’s not for me.”
“Aye, and we should be thinking of pulling up the hook and getting the hell out of here, Con. Not making any money sitting here in Carlisle Bay when there’s an ocean of prizes just plying the Caribbean.”
Connor said nothing as he let his precious burden down another few inches.
“Of course,” Nathan added thoughtfully, “It’s not like you to give something up without a fight. She’s enamored of you already. Wouldn’t take much to win her.”
“And what the devil would I do with a wife? And a British one at that?”
“I can think of a lot of things one can do with a wife, British or not.”
Connor let the rope down a few more inches and with every bit of distance that increased between himself and Miss Rhiannon, he felt his ire growing. He wanted her, that sunset-haired beauty that Delmore was about to take away from him. Wanted her with a grinding ache that was firing every part of his body. “You’re entirely correct,” he muttered. “This was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out visit, drop the women off and get the hell out of here. We should have weighed anchor last night.”
“So why not make the best of the situation?”
“Eh?”
“Since we’re here, let’s scrape the weed from the old lady’s bottom, get her speed back up to where it should be with a good, clean hull, and while we’re doing that, you can pay court to the beautiful Miss Evans.” Nathan offered a rare grin. “Ain’t getting any younger, Connor, and you know it. You gonna sit by and let Delmore have her?”
“I’ll be thirty later this year.”
“Precisely my point.”
“I can’t commit to any one woman. I get bored too easily and end up breaking hearts. I don’t want to break hers, Nathan.”
“You won’t get bored with that one.”
“She’s too young for me.”
“A younger woman will tolerate your foolishness better than a mature one.”
“She’s too good for me.”
“She’s perfect for you. Not many would put up with your restlessness, Con. That one?” He nodded toward the woman below. “She’s got mischief in her eyes. She’d be more than a wife. She’d be a partner in crime.”
The rope slackened as Miss Evans’s feet landed gently in the Royal Navy boat. Connor watched his impeccably dressed cousin take her hand and help her get seated. Saw the radiant smile she gave the British captain and felt something tighten in his gut. The tars at the oars were trying, unsuccessfully, to keep their eyes off her, and between it all, he felt a sudden uncontrollable urge to do something violent.
Nathan made a hmphing sound. “See what I mean?”
“For God’s sake, Nathan, I’m a privateer in service to our country. I don’t have the time or luxury for a romance, let alone a wife.”
“I’m sure your mother and Da would like more grandchildren. American ones, that don’t live one or two thousand miles away.”
“Oh, just stow it, would you, Nathan?” With a bitter sigh, Connor yanked the rope contraption, now slack and painfully empty, back up the side and flung it to the deck. “We’ll stay here, but for no longer than it takes to get Kestrel’s bottom scraped as best we can without being granted use of the Careenage. In the meantime, I’ll remain here aboard the ship. There’s nothing awaiting me on shore but trouble.”
He turned away then and thus, missed Nathan’s knowing grin.
There was nothing, of course, that drew Connor Merrick in faster, than “trouble.”
* * *
“Trouble” came some hours later when Connor impulsively accepted his sister’s invitation to dine with the Falconers. He and his crew had spent the day scraping the weed from Kestrel’s hull as best they could without totally hauling her out and careening her, and by the time the shadows were long across the schooner’s decks he was bored, restless, and ready for a change of scenery.
He knew Rhiannon Evans would be there.
He knew it was the last place he ought to be.
And against his better judgment, he accepted anyhow.
Tired from spending the day in the sun, nursing a burn on his shoulders and back and a deep cut on his arm from an encounter with a barnacle, Connor arrived on the veranda (late as usual), only to find the seat beside the beautiful Miss Evans already occupied by none other than Captain Delmore Lord.
He saw red, and his earlier proclamations to Nathan were promptly forgotten.
No, he didn’t have room in his life for a romance, and he was plenty aware of his numerous shortcomings. But he damn well wasn’t going to give up the only woman to have ever caught his interest hook, line and sinker, to his stuffy prig of a cousin, either.
And now Delmore was telling sea tales.
And Miss Evans was staring at him, fascinated and attentive.
Connor’s fist, buried under the tablecloth, itched to connect with Delmore’s sudden smile as Miss Evans widened her eyes and put a pretty little hand to her high, firm bosom.
“You were very brave to do that, Captain Lord! And to a French man of war, besides! No wonder Sir Graham made you his flag captain!”
“Oh, it was a most decisive engagement, Miss Evans,” Dull-more was saying. He sat up a bit straighter in his already stiff dress uniform, obviously enjoying the attention. “But far be it from me to trouble your gentle ears with the details of the battle. Suffice it to say, we won the day and sent the French ships packing.”
“But I would love to hear the details, Captain Lord!”
Connor rolled his eyes. “Aye, so would I.”
Delmore tightened his lips. “Accounts of battle and the complicated strategies of naval engagements are not appropriate conversation in genteel company. You should know that, Connor.”
“Naval engagements, eh? Ah, let me guess. You were a hero of Trafalgar along with every other mariner the Royal Navy ever bred.”
“I was not at Trafalgar,” Dull-more said tersely.
“So!” Alannah interjected cheerfully, with a worried look between the two captains. “What did you all think of that lovely conch soup we had for supper this evening? Marvelous, was it not?”
“Indeed,” Connor bit out, his eyes narrowing as his English cousin refilled Rhiannon’s lemonade glass. He had never been in a position of having to compete for a woman’s favors before, and the unfamiliar bite of jealousy twisted in his gut. He felt a muscle tic in his jaw and thought about how attractive the dashing Captain Lord would look with his teeth sprinkled all over Sir Graham’s floor after a chance meeting with his fist.
“And what of you, Captain Merrick?” Alannah Cox continued, a little too brightly. “Do you have any good battle stories?”
“Plenty, ma’m. But I concur with my cousin. Such tales are not appropriate for a lady’s ears.”
Connor reached for more rum. Dull-more droned on expansively about the beauty of the Barbados flora, the Hampshire downs where he’d spent his childhood, the mysterious and wonderful things
he’d seen in his years at sea. Connor pointedly yawned. Rhiannon laughed at something the Englishman said, and Connor’s heel started to tap, tap, tap against the floor beneath the table. He wondered if there was a way to get up, seize Rhiannon by the arm, and haul her out of here without looking like a complete boor.
She’s mine, he thought savagely. Mine.
He was glad when the ladies repaired to inside the house, leaving the three men alone out on the verandah.
The admiral wasted no time. “So when are you leaving, Connor?” he asked, point-blank.
Connor raised his head and looked flatly at his brother-in-law. Did Sir Graham want him out of here so as not to upset Maeve? Or so that the oh-so-perfect Deadly Dull-more could have free rein to pursue Miss Evans without competition? Of course, Sir Graham would never discourage Delmore from courting the girl. Delmore was a choir boy compared to himself. And Delmore had surely not gotten himself thrown out of school after numerous canings, beatings and whippings had failed to stop him from fighting, disturbing the other children, and staring moodily out the window when he was bored.
Delmore, he knew, wasn’t stupid, as he had been.
As he still was.
For a fleeting moment, he saw again a long-ago street in Newburyport, heard again the mocking taunts of the other children.
Connor! Connor! You’re stupid and have no hon-or!
The other boys had been easily silenced with his fist, but no matter how successful he was as a privateer, no matter how much he drove himself to prove his worth by taking one rich prize after another, the self-doubt remained. . . .
“Connor?” the admiral persisted.
Connor grinned but he was angry, and the grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Eager to be rid of me, Sir G?”
“Your presence here requires no small degree of tact and maneuvering on my part to keep things on an even keel. Any one of my officers would, I daresay, be quite happy to remember that you are an American privateer.” The admiral reached for his glass of rum. “Nothing personal of course, but it does put me in a bit of a spot.”
“I understand. And I know the only reason you haven’t seized Kestrel and thrown the lot of us into some forgotten prison is because I’m ‘family.’”
“Look, don’t make it any harder than it already is. War is ugly, and this one in particular leaves a bad taste in my mouth.” He looked out over the riding lights of the ships anchored in the bay. “I’d rather be battling the French than you Yankees. Remember that.”
Across the table, Delmore Lord quietly helped himself to a glass of punch from one of the two bowls that didn’t have a gallon or two of rum dumped into it. Connor frowned. Did the man practice temperance along with all his other constraining habits?
What a dead bore.
He splashed a hefty dose of rum into his own mug and unflinchingly met the admiral’s blue gaze. Beneath the table, his foot was making restless circles, moving faster and faster as his agitation increased. “Well, I shan’t trouble you with my presence past the end of the week, Sir Graham. After all, I have work to do, and it’s not going to get done sitting in Carlisle Bay.”
“If you intend to hoist the Stars and Stripes and take that schooner privateering—”
“That’s exactly what I intend.”
A muscle twitched in the admiral’s jaw. “You’re a damned nuisance, Connor.”
“I try to be.”
“Your sister’s about to have a baby. She’s already upset enough, worrying about you. She’s been dreaming about death. Yours, or that of someone she loves. For God’s sake, why do you insist on doing things that upset people so?”
“Now that’s a fine sentiment, given the source.”
“Your penchant for thrills and living dangerously is unfair to those who care about you.”
“As you said, Sir Graham, war is ugly. This one started because Britain was stomping all over the rights of American seamen, and it will end because those same American seamen will prove to be your superior. Mark me on that. Despite the might of ships like Constitution and United States, our navy is small and so it falls to men like me—America’s privateers—to take up the slack.” He took another swallow of rum, looked the admiral straight in the eye and, wondering how much further he could push his brother-in-law before he lost his temper, recklessly set about trying to find that tipping point. “Why, even you must admit that we’re doing a damned fine job of it.”
Captain Lord sipped his punch. “Honorable men do not become privateers. They join their country’s navy, instead.”
Connor set down his mug. “Dare you call me a dishonorable man, Delmore?”
“Stop it, both of you,” Sir Graham snapped. “I’ll not have a duel between you.”
“And I’ll not stand to be insulted so.”
“You two are cousins, for God’s sake. But this isn’t about who’s in what navy, is it? Or who has the most honor?” The admiral’s blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the two of you circling Miss Evans like a couple of curs over a bone. And I’ll tell you right now, I won’t have it. The girl is eighteen, and I’m charged with her guardianship while she’s here. She arrived here as an innocent, and when I send her back to her sister and Lord Morninghall in six weeks’ time, I intend her to still be an innocent.”
Connor just looked at the admiral, a tiny hint of a smile playing with one corner of his mouth as he lifted his mug, took a long swallow, and gave his cousin a challenging stare over the rim.
Captain Lord drew himself up a little straighter in his chair and said nothing, in rigid control of himself once more.
Sir Graham looked at them both. “And now, that’s enough of that. I hear the ladies returning, and I don’t want anything upsetting Maeve any more than it already has.”
* * *
Rhiannon had returned to the veranda with the ladies only to find a tension in the air that was as charged and heavy as an impending storm. Something had transpired out here in their absence and by the looks of things, it wasn’t anything good. Captain Lord was even stiffer than usual, Sir Graham was pretending a lightning bolt wasn’t going to crack down out of the ceiling at any moment, and Connor Merrick was hard-eyed, agitated, and drumming his long, handsome fingers against the table; at a cross look from his sister at this lapse in manners, he’d resorted to tapping his foot against the floor in a way that betrayed his restlessness, and Rhiannon wasn’t at all surprised when he made his excuses as soon as it was polite to do so, stood up, and bade them all a good night.
As he bowed over her hand, his green eyes met hers from over her knuckle; there was something hard and angry in them, but he quickly smiled, making little crinkles fan out from the corners of his eyes and transforming his face into one of careless good humor, and the moment was lost. Perhaps she’d only imagined his anger; he seemed too much of a free spirit to harbor such an emotion. But all too soon, he was striding toward the big glass doors, broad-backed, lean and handsome, the lantern light falling softly on his tousled chestnut curls. A moment later he was gone, taking his larger-than-life presence with him.
Small talk ensued. But Rhiannon’s gaze kept going to the empty chair where Captain Merrick had been sitting, and she was painfully aware of his absence.
And so she passed the rest of the evening feeling much lower than she let on, speaking when she was spoken to, smiling when she was supposed to smile, and being kind to the naval captain whom, she feared, was fostering an interest in her that she probably shouldn’t encourage. Captain Lord was a good man, a noble one, entirely suitable but altogether wrong for her. She would break his heart, and she knew it. Captain Merrick, on the other hand, was entirely unsuitable but altogether right for her. He made her heart beat a hundred times faster and her blood to race and her thoughts to turn to wicked, imagined things that couples did in the darkness.
She went to her room as soon as it was polite to make her excuses, and from somewhere off in Bridgetown, the strains of lively music came wafting
through the warm night. The breeze moved gently into the room and Rhiannon, wishing for tiredness but unable to turn off her thoughts, her mind, her memory of the brave, half-naked Captain Merrick leaping fearlessly from the rigging earlier that day, could not sleep.
She pulled the lantern close and picked up a book, but the words filed before her, empty of meaning, and she found herself going over the same paragraph over and over again without remembering what she had read.
She got up and paced, finally stopping at the open window and looking down into the harbor where the riding lights of the British fleet, merchant ships, trade vessels, and somewhere, the American privateer schooner Kestrel, winked in the darkness.
Connor Merrick was out there somewhere.
Connor Merrick, who leaped with fearless abandon from high in the rigging . . . who had saved her beloved sister from drowning back in Portsmouth . . . who had rescued her and Alannah from bloodthirsty pirates, brought them safely through a terrible storm at sea, and delivered them without incident to Barbados; Connor Merrick, who made her blood thrum and her knees weak and a strange, restless ache to gather between her legs.
She would not sleep this night.
Frustrated, Rhiannon turned from the window, moved across the room, and decided that a walk in the warm night air might soothe her enough to find the rest she sought.
For her, as it was for Captain Merrick, trouble was waiting.
* * *
Connor had not gone back to Kestrel.
He needed exercise, the release of moving his body, and there wasn’t room enough on the schooner’s eighty-foot deck for the hard walk that his muscles, let alone his temper, craved. Instead, he stalked angrily away from the house and down the lawn toward the water, even the balmy trades against his skin unable to soothe his anger.
Damn Sir Graham. Damn Delmore Lord. Damn everyone, damn everything, and damn himself for letting himself get hooked by Miss Rhiannon Evans when he’d known all along, when he’d told himself all along, to walk away.
Lord Of The Sea Page 9