“I am going to take you back to the house now, Miss Evans.”
It took her a moment to realize what he’d said, and the confusion and disappointment must have shown clearly on her face.
“But . . . why?”
“Because if we stay out here any longer it will end up as more than just a kiss, and far more than a swim lesson. You’re a good girl. I’d like to ensure you stay that way.”
“But—”
“Shhh.” He took her hand and together they trudged from the warm waters, Rhiannon aching with a longing she did not understand, her lips tingling from the kiss, her skin on fire where he, with his big, warm, strong hands, had touched it.
They emerged, dripping, onto the beach. There, he bent to pick up his shirt. Shaking the sand from it, he gently placed it around her shoulders in an attempt to restore a bit of her modesty, and it was then that she saw a large bulge at the front of his wet, cut-off trousers.
Her eyes widened.
He noted the direction of her gaze. “I did not, shall we say, ‘behave myself’ tonight, Miss Evans. Please accept my apologies.” He grinned. “You make me forget myself, ma’m.”
He offered his arm and there was something hurried about him now, something that spoke of restlessness and regret and an eagerness to rush her back to the house and be done with her. Rhiannon, trying not to glance at his trousers, felt her confusion mounting. She felt hot and cold and dizzy and faint from a million different sensations she could not identify. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She didn’t know what she wanted, really, except to find a way back into his arms, and to feel his lips against her own once more. . . .
They had just reached the edge of the trees when Captain Merrick suddenly halted and, in one swift motion, put her behind him.
There was the frightening sound of a pistol being cocked. “Who goes there, by God?” a voice of authority demanded.
Rhiannon froze, and a sensation of pure horror shot from the base of her spine, up into her throat, and stole the breath from her lungs. Oh, dear God above. It was Sir Graham, and he stood not ten feet away, a pistol aimed straight at Captain Merrick’s heart, with his wife—brandishing a cutlass—at his side.
“It is I. Connor. I was merely enjoying a late night swim following the day’s heat, and I’d be much obliged, Sir Graham, if you’d lower the pistol.”
“Ned just came to me to tell me he heard a woman cry out. That it sounded like Miss Evans.”
“It was probably just a night bird, nothing more.”
Rhiannon didn’t dare to move, and the iron-grip that the American captain had on her arm warned her against it. He was trying to keep her hidden behind his own body, to protect her reputation, to try and salvage this situation as best he could. But then there was movement and noise in the undergrowth behind the admiral and Alannah appeared, holding a lantern.
Sir Graham took the lamp and held it high.
“Whom do you have with you, Connor?”
“With all due respect, Admiral, though you may be my brother-in-law, you are certainly not my keeper, my father, or for that matter, my commanding officer.”
But the admiral had shoved his pistol into his waistband and frowning, was coming closer, his eyes, dark in the shadows cast by the lantern, going hard.
Still hiding behind her protector, Rhiannon took a deep and shuddering breath. The game was up and she knew it. She stepped out from behind the protection of Captain Merrick’s broad back, her face flaming, her arms coming up to shield her dripping body, knowing that the water had made her shift and thin muslin gown cling to her like a second skin. She was mortified. But to let Captain Merrick take the blame was unfair. She was as much responsible for the awful, scandalous mess in which they both found themselves as he was.
Perhaps even more.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Alannah.
Sir Graham’s face went even darker, and beside him Maeve moved to take his arm.
“Don’t blame Captain Merrick for this,” Rhiannon said with more courage than she felt. She raised her chin and steadily met the admiral’s hard glare. “I asked him to give me a swimming lesson.”
“A what?”
“A swimming lesson, Admiral. Nothing more.”
“I daresay it was a lot more than a swimming lesson, girl!”
Sir Graham turned his full, frightening fury on Connor Merrick. “Do you realize that Lord Morninghall sent the girl to me trusting that I would protect and guard her while she was under my care? Do you? She’s only eighteen years old, and if you weren’t my wife’s brother I’d have you shot where you stand.”
“Sir Graham, if you would let me speak—”
“Let you speak?” The admiral’s voice was icy with barely-suppressed rage. “You’re trouble, Connor. Trouble. You’re reckless, proud, over-confident, swaggering, and nothing like the father you seek to emulate, a man for whom I have the highest degree of admiration. So help me God, if he were standing here instead of me he couldn’t be more ashamed of you than I am right now. Miss Evans, you will accompany Lady Falconer and Alannah back to the house.”
Rhiannon, however, dared not let go of Captain Merrick’s arm which, despite his relaxed stance, had gone very tense beneath her fingers. She did not quite believe that her host wouldn’t shoot him, for she had never seen the normally affable Sir Graham in such a state of rage, and she was suddenly afraid for the American captain.
“Sir Graham, we did nothing wrong—”
“I said, you will accompany my wife back to the house. And you will do it now.”
“Wait.”
Captain Merrick, who had been content to let Sir Graham give vent to his blistering fury, finally spoke.
“You’re right in that I should have known better than to plunge a young lady into the situation in which she was discovered tonight.” His voice hardened, and the charming, smiling man that Rhiannon had thus known him to be was suddenly gone, to be replaced by someone every inch as forbidding and dangerous as the admiral himself . . . maybe even more so. “But you are wrong, dead wrong, sir, when you say I am nothing like my father.”
“Your father is a decent and honorable man!”
“And you do me a grave injustice, Sir Graham, by implying that I am not. Don’t think I’m not willing to meet you at dawn for such an insult.”
“Enough, both of you!” Maeve said sharply, moving between the two of them. “I’ll have none of this!”
“And neither will I!” Rhiannon cried, suddenly alarmed.
But the British admiral was looking at the American privateer with a cunning, contemplative eye. “And just how do you intend to prove to me, Connor, that you’ve inherited a shred of your father’s goodness of character?”
“I have nothing to prove to you. And no obligation to. But I know my duty, and I’ll marry the girl. You may think the worst of me, Admiral, and you’re free to do so, but let no man say I’m not decent or honorable. I am my father’s son, and if Miss Evans will have me, I request your permission, as her guardian in Lord Morninghall’s absence, to make her my wife.”
In the sudden silence, nobody spoke.
Captain Merrick stood waiting, a proud and noble figure despite the fact he was barefoot and clad in nothing but wet trousers.
And Rhiannon’s heart stopped beating in her chest.
“My apologies, Connor,” the admiral finally said, with a tight, grudging smile. “It seems as though I’ve misjudged your character, after all.” He turned to Rhiannon, his face grave. “And you, Miss Evans? Have you an opinion on this?”
Had she an opinion on this?
Her head spinning, the situation growing more surreal by the moment, and feeling perilously close to fainting, Rhiannon took a step closer to Captain Merrick. She inhaled deeply, trying to control her shaking. Her numbness. There were worse things than being married. There were worse things than being married to a Yankee privateer.
And there were certainly worse things than being married to the noble, daring, heroic
man who had rescued so many hapless souls from the atrocities of the British prison hulks, who had rescued Lord Morninghall from a firing squad and helped secure his royal pardon, who had rescued her sister from drowning, who had rescued herself and Alannah from pirates, and now, had rescued her reputation from what could have been a terrible scandal.
Sir Graham had been wrong.
Connor Merrick was a good and decent man.
She took a deep and steadying breath. “I would be honored to have him, Sir Graham.”
Chapter 11
As he made his way back to Kestrel, that same noble, daring, heroic man who had rescued so many hapless souls was feeling anything but noble, daring, or heroic, and he realized, quite desperately, that the one who needed rescuing this time was none other than himself.
Marriage. Marriage. To a girl who wasn’t even past the age of guardianship, a girl he barely knew, a girl who was already half in love with him—a girl who would turn away in pity if she were ever to discern the truth about him.
Nobody has ever accused me of being smart, Miss Evans.
His earlier comment to her had not been in jest.
Oh, God help me.
He wiped a shaky hand over his face and felt his heartbeat kicking up in his chest. Fear prickled his spine and he stepped up his pace, determined to escape the land and reach the solace of his ship.
Three weeks for the banns to be read, and he would be a married man.
Three weeks for him to figure out what in tarnation he was going to do.
The boat was waiting on the beach where he’d left it, and he pushed it out into the surf, wading in until the little hull was floating free before stepping inside. He picked up the oars and began to row, the boat knifing across the still, night-blackened harbor.
He would marry her, of course. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, and it was the least he owed her. But he would keep her at arm’s length, refuse to let her get too close to him, ensure that their marriage was distant, perhaps even platonic if it would keep her from falling in love with him, even if he had to keep himself off to sea and away from her as much as possible; if he didn’t let her into his heart, her girlish infatuation would never become love, and she, at least, would never discover the secret that only he, Nathan, and the closest members of his family shared.
For Connor knew he was defective. The wonderful, loving relationship that his father and mother had enjoyed for so many years was not something he was destined to have for himself.
And no woman would have him, if only she knew.
Nobody has ever accused me of being smart, Miss Evans.
Through the darkness ahead he could just see the white stripe that marked Kestrel’s wale, and never had his little ship felt so welcoming.
The schooner stood quietly above her anchor, a lantern hung in the larboard shrouds of her foremast casting a rippling finger of light over the water toward him. Her figurehead was the small, predatory hawk for which she’d been named, and it stood out clearly against the starlit horizon as Connor rowed toward her. In the darkness, he could just see Jacques standing the watch, his pipe glowing. Connor hailed him and hooked onto the schooner’s main chains. Moments later, he was up the side and standing on the deck.
“Bonsoir, Capitaine,” said the Frenchman, taking off his hat in salute.
Connor merely nodded and headed forward.
“Have you lost your shirt, sir?”
“No, I know precisely where it is.”
Jacques trailed him, grinning as though he knew some big secret to which the rest of the world was not privy.
“Did you get to see mademoiselle?”
“None of your blasted business. Go to bed. You’re relieved.”
“She’s a pretty little fille, that one. You know, Capitaine, I have a suggestion for you. I know women, I do. And the best way to a woman’s heart is through extravagant complements, flowers, beautiful—”
“I said go to bed, Jacques. That is an order.”
“Trust me, Capitaine, you listen to me and you’ll have mademoiselle eating out of your hand.”
Connor turned and stared hard at the Frenchman who, surely, couldn’t know the first thing about how to go about winning a woman’s attention.
“Jacques, if you do not go below this instant and leave me to my thoughts, I swear I’m going to throw you over the side.”
“As you wish, Capitaine. Just trying to help.” Again, he raised his hat, replaced it, and with a grinning leer that made the knife-scar that split his bottom lip all the more ghastly, finally went below.
Connor paid him no further heed. He had a hard enough time keeping his thoughts aligned and on course without additional distraction, and right now he needed to think, needed to be alone, and needed to cool down. Sir Graham’s words had stung and he was still angry, not only with the admiral but with himself. There was only one place in the world where he would find the solitude and clarity of mind that he sought.
One place in the world that was open, free, and, at the moment, entirely his.
He went to the rail, began to climb, and a few minutes later was safely perched in the crosstrees, the gently swaying foremast stretching down to the deck far below, the topmast, with its crossed yards and a black hemisphere twinkling with a thousand stars, above him.
There he remained, high above the quiet waters of Carlisle Bay, looking out at the riding lights of the ships around him, feeling the warm trades caressing his cheek and playing with his hair and making the pennant tickle the sky above his head.
He did not have the intimate relationship with ships in general, and this one in particular, that his father enjoyed, though on nights like this Connor fancied he could feel the schooner’s very soul around him. She had been part of his earliest memories, when his father had taken him, Maeve and young Kieran, often joined by their cousins Nathan and Toby, out sailing in her. Da had taught them all how to set the sails to get the best trim, how to reef and steer and tie a knot, how to go aloft without fear, how to read the compass and take a noon sighting and interpret the signs in the clouds and in the wind and in the seas themselves warning of impending weather. Occasionally, Da would let them fire off one of Kestrel’s guns, though it was their mother who taught them how to aim it with deadly precision.
Eventually, Connor knew, he would have to return Kestrel to his father. It was to his Dadaí that the schooner rightfully belonged, and perhaps he’d get in one more privateering cruise before collecting his young bride and setting a course for New England, two thousand miles away.
And perhaps, since the ship was fully provisioned, he’d begin that cruise tomorrow.
I would like that, Kestrel seemed to say around him, and Connor smiled at last.
Maybe he shared more of his Da’s intimate relationship with the schooner than he’d thought.
* * *
Alone out on the veranda of Sir Graham’s beautiful island home, Rhiannon was also sitting beneath the stars, her thoughts her own.
She was miserable.
Oh, how had this evening ended up so badly? How had it gone so terribly wrong?
The admiral was furious with Captain Merrick, and he didn’t seem much happier with her either, having slammed into his study the moment they’d all returned to the house with orders that he was not to be disturbed. Maeve, however, had been far more understanding.
“You must forgive Sir Graham,” she said, coming out onto the veranda and pressing a glass of lemonade into Rhiannon’s hand. “He may be angry with my brother, but I can assure you he’s far angrier with himself. He feels as though he failed you, as well as Lord Morninghall’s trust in him.”
“It all seemed so innocent,” Rhiannon had said quietly, and put her head into her hands, trying not to cry.
“These sort of things usually do—at first.” Maeve pulled out the chair beside Rhiannon, her hand on the small of her back before easing herself down. The swelling of her belly was readily apparent beneath her simple gown of sprigge
d cotton. “Sir Graham behaved no better than my brother did in the days leading up to our marriage, and perhaps even worse, so don’t let him fool you into thinking he’s some paragon of virtue. He was an incurable rogue. And he’d be the first to say that it takes one to know one.”
Rhiannon had taken a deep, steadying breath. “Everyone always blames the man. I was as responsible for this as Captain Merrick. And yet he’s the one to have a pistol aimed at his heart and forced to do something he may not have been willing to do if his own sense of honor had not demanded it.”
Maeve had let out an unladylike hoot of laughter. “My dear, don’t disillusion yourself. My brother cannot be forced to do anything he doesn’t want to do. He offered for you tonight because he wanted to.”
“I suspect he’s the most unhappy man in the world right now,” Rhiannon said sadly. “And I blame myself for that.”
“Unhappy? Connor?” Maeve guffawed. “I guess you didn’t notice the way he was watching you all through dinner these last two nights. No, Rhiannon, I suspect that once he gets over the initial shock of it all, he’ll find himself happier than he could ever imagine.”
“But I let a lot of people down tonight. . . .”
“Nonsense. Connor needs someone like you to anchor him. To steady him. He’s a ship in a full-force gale, restless, unable to sit still, constantly in motion and headed for certain trouble unless someone can find a way to rein him in. He’s gotten cocky and overconfident in his desperation to prove himself, and that’ll be his undoing. I worry about him.” She reached out and touched Rhiannon’s hand. “You’ll be good for each other.”
“I wish I could be so sure.”
Maeve smiled. “I have the Irish gift of the Sight,” she said. “And I have the feeling that you will be the saving of my wild and reckless brother, in more ways than one.”
* * *
Without a word to anyone except his betrothed, to whom he sent a brief note saying he’d be back in a fortnight, Connor had taken the schooner Kestrel out of Bridgetown that very night and in the two weeks that followed, made himself such a complete nuisance to shipping between Africa and the West Indies that a desperate appeal was finally made to Vice Admiral Sir Graham Falconer in Barbados asking the Royal Navy to do more to protect British ships from “a mysterious American privateer that swoops down out of the clouds, takes our merchantmen, and is off before our own guard ships can do anything to protect us.”
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