Lord Of The Sea

by Danelle Harmon

  The room was bathed in candlelight, painting a soft golden glow over the rich mahogany furniture, the high walls, the damp white sheets that lay twisted around the boy’s small body. Maeve had not moved, and for a moment, Rhiannon stood watching her sister-in-law as she tenderly bathed the child’s brow with the sponge. She looked up then, and saw Rhiannon.

  “How is he?”

  Maeve’s eyes were haunted. “I don’t want to say he’s worse, Rhiannon, because if I do, that will make it true.”

  But it was clear that the child’s condition had deteriorated. His black hair was damp with sweat, and his breathing had grown shallow and faint.

  “I tried to rouse him a little while ago so that he could take something to drink,” Maeve whispered. “But I couldn’t. At least . . . at least, he’ll be with Mother and Da.” Her voice caught on a sob. “They’ll take care of him in heaven.”

  Rhiannon pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the bed. “Your brother will get that medicine, Maeve. He’s going to save Ned’s life. I know it in my very bones.”

  “Reckless idiot,” Maeve said, not unkindly.

  “Reckless, yes.”

  “That very trait of his that caused him so much trouble . . . never did I think I’d be grateful for it. That the very thing we always condemned him for, and thought of as his greatest fault, would end up being a blessing. Nobody else would have even considered going out in this weather . . . Nobody. If he makes it back, I have much to apologize for.”

  “He’s suffering terribly, Maeve.”

  “I know . . . and I’m sorry for that. I said things, did things, in my grief that were wrong. That were cruel. And perhaps, if I was there, I would have made the same decisions.”

  The two women sat in the candlelit silence, and it occurred to Rhiannon that the howling roar of the wind outside had diminished. Somewhere downstairs, a clock chimed.

  Ned moaned and turned his head to the side. His lips had gone dry and chapped.

  “I’m happy he found you, you know,” Maeve said. “My brother was always a carefree spirit, happy in nature but quick to anger, but deep down inside, I don’t think he ever thought very highly of himself. Yes, he projected an image he wanted the world to see and believe, but underneath it all, he didn’t believe it himself. But I’ve seen the change in him since he met you, Rhiannon. He’s more . . . relaxed. Anchored. More sure of himself, now, in a way that is no longer false, but genuine.”

  “He has been good for me, too. He taught me how to swim. And to dive from the rail of a ship. And on that last day, he let me take Kestrel’s tiller.” She smiled in remembrance. “It was one of the most memorable, incredible moments of my life.” She looked down, picking at a thread in her sleeve. “She had a soul, didn’t she?”

  “Aye. She sure did.”

  Maeve’s eyes grew distant, and she looked up as Sir Graham entered the room.

  “How is he?” he asked.

  “I think you should stay, Gray.” She took her little boy’s hand. “I don’t think he has long, now.”

  Rhiannon saw the tears gathering in the admiral’s eyes. She would leave this little family with their pain, and their privacy. She got up, and quietly left the room.

  Outside, the wind had abated yet further, and as she walked through the long, dark gallery Rhiannon saw that a servant had already come through and opened the shutters, allowing the breeze, gusty now and indeed coming in from the southeast, to sweep through the long room. A dull grey light hung over everything and noting it, Rhiannon went to the great double doors, pushed them open, and stepped out onto the verandah.

  Above, the stars were reappearing, revealed in all their cold, sparkling beauty as the great bands of cloud slid silently off to the north. Far off to the east, over the hills themselves, a faint blush of pale light heralded the coming dawn.

  Rhiannon got down on her knees and prayed.

  For little Ned.

  For the Falconers.

  For Liam and Nathan and Toby and Delmore and One-Eye and Jacques and for the cutter, Rapier.

  But mostly, she prayed for Connor.

  And as the dawn grew brighter, the sun rising triumphantly up through high, striated remnants of the storm to paint the harbor orange, red, and gold, Rhiannon turned her head to the west and the open sea.

  There, in the distance, was the cutter Rapier.

  Tears slipped silently down Rhiannon’s cheeks.

  He had done it.

  * * *

  The doctor was summoned before the cutter could even reach the anchorage, the medicine was administered, and Connor Merrick’s brave and selfless act saved the little boy’s life.

  Absolution.

  On a beautiful morning two weeks later the American privateer stood at the pier, his lean, handsome form shown off by a snug-fitting black tailcoat cut away at the waist, buff pantaloons tucked into Hessian boots, and a smart new round hat that would offer him little protection from the tropical sun. But that didn’t really matter. Where they were headed, it was likely to be a lot colder.

  “Please give Gwyneth my love,” Maeve said, holding newborn Grace in her arms while the twins, Mary and Anne, tugged at her skirts. Standing between her and his father stood Ned, still pale, still recovering, but alive. He was looking worshipfully up at his uncle as Connor hugged his sister, shook hands with the admiral, and gave Delmore Lord a quick thump on the back before embracing him.

  “Have a care, sir, you’ll muss the lace on my coat,” the British captain said with a little smile. “I have an image to keep up, you know.”

  “Live a little,” Connor said, playfully punching his cousin’s shoulder. “And come visit, Del, when you bring the admiral and his family back across the Atlantic. If he can spare you.”

  Connor and Rhiannon knelt down and hugged the twins, and then Connor came to Ned.

  “Take care of my sister, young man. I expect nothing less of you.”

  “I will, Uncle Connor.” The boy’s throat worked, and he tried, manfully, to keep his emotions at bay. “Thank you for saving my life. For risking yours so that I would be okay. Were you awfully scared, Uncle Connor?”

  “Terrified,” his uncle said softly, smiling down at the child. “But not as frightened as I would have been had I not gone.”

  “When I was sick . . . I had a dream. They told me you would go. That you’d be the only one crazy enough to do it and that because of you, I’d be all right. After that, I wasn’t scared of dying anymore. He let me take the tiller. And she let me fire a cannon that had its own name.”

  Connor’s indulgent smile froze. “What are you saying, lad?”

  The boy shrugged, and suddenly self-conscious, looked down at his feet. “It was just a dream, Uncle Connor.”

  Connor looked at the boy for a long moment, and a sudden shaft of light speared through high cloud and sparkled peacefully on the waves.

  “Just a dream,” he said softly, exchanging a glance with his sister, and then his wife. “And what was the cannon’s name, Ned?”

  “Freedom.”

  Freedom.

  Connor looked up at Maeve, and the words lay unspoken between them. But his sister gave a tremulous smile, and tears stood in her eyes—happy ones, of relief and gratitude—and the sunlight brightened yet further.

  They were going home. First to England, to make good on Connor’s promise to get his wife to Morninghall Abbey in time for the birth of her sister’s baby. Then, on to Newburyport.

  “Just behave yourself in my waters,” Sir Graham said with false gruffness. “No privateering until you’re well north of the Indies. I beg of you.” He cast a sideways glance at Kieran, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, smiling fondly. “Bad enough that I’m stuck with one Merrick brother to have to watch like a hawk. Don’t make me come after you.”

  Connor laughed, and wrapped his arm around Rhiannon. “Given that I’ve got a ship like Rapier to command, that’s a tall order, Sir Graham. But I promise not to make you r
egret such a generous gift.”

  “It’s the least I could do, Connor, for all that you did for my family.” He reached out and firmly shook his brother-in-law’s hand. “Be well. And thank you.”

  The cutter lay waiting atop her reflection in the turquoise water, Nathan, Toby, One-Eye and Jacques already aboard.

  “Guess it’s time to say good-bye, then,” Connor said.

  He embraced his young brother, who thought to stay here in the tropics for a while longer, though the twinkle in his eye suggested that Sir Graham’s worries about yet another Merrick privateer were well-founded. Then he and Rhiannon hugged each of his family one last time, his heart freed from its guilt, his fingers worrying one of the bright brass buttons of his new double-breasted coat in his eagerness to get underway.

  There was one last person to say farewell to.

  Liam Doherty would not be heading north with them.

  “My old bones rather like it down here, lad,” he said, holding out his hand to Connor after embracing Rhiannon in a great bear hug. “Maybe there’s no cure for the rheumatism, but this is about as close as I think I’ll ever get.”

  “Come visit us, Liam.” Connor smiled. “Barbados in the winter might be good for your rheumatism, but Newburyport in the summertime will be good for your soul.”

  “I’ll do that, lad.” Liam looked down for a moment, then reached deeply into his pocket and drew out a folded piece of vellum. “Here. Read this when . . . when you’re ready.”

  Connor laughed, because Liam knew as well as anyone, now, that he couldn’t read. At least, not very well. But still, it was kind of the old man whom he loved like an uncle to pen a few words to him when, perhaps, uttering them might be too emotional for them both.

  They went back a long way, he and Liam.

  Connor put the paper deep in his pocket, his mind went off in the many unchaseable directions it was wont to go, and he forgot about it.

  An hour later they had weighed anchor, and Rapier, her long jib-boom pointing the way, was steering a course for England.

  Epilogue

  Damon de Wolfe, the Marquess of Morninghall and one-time holder of the Black Wolf persona himself, was pacing the floors of his great Cotswolds home as his wife, screaming in agony as the pains of labor seized her once again, struggled upstairs to deliver his firstborn.

  “If I didn’t have you to thank for saving my life, Connor, after that whole Black Wolf business, I swear I’d have more than a little to say to you for compromising my ward in Barbados. Is the world not safe from you?”

  “No, my lord. I’m afraid not.”

  “Got the paper this morning. The Times. Some damned American privateer was harrying and harassing our shipping in the Channel right under the noses of the fleet as recently as last Sunday. Took a few prizes and made off with them, and in broad daylight as well. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, I suppose.”

  Connor’s grin was completely innocent. “I suppose I wouldn’t, my lord.”

  “Stop with the my lord nonsense. I’m Damon to you, and you know it.”

  “Yes.” Connor’s grin spread. “My lord.”

  Upstairs, there was another loud cry from Gwyneth, and Damon got up and resumed his pacing. “It was good of you to get Rhiannon back here so she could be with her sister during this. And that dog of hers was howling for her constantly. You’ll have to take him back with you, my nerves are shot. Shot. I thought that having a baby was supposed to be the most blessed event in the entire damned world. All rainbows, bliss and light. By God, I’m a wreck. I’ll be damned if I ever put myself through this kind of hell ever again.”

  Connor, smirking, poured a measure of the rum he had brought from Barbados into his brother-in-law’s glass. “Here. Drink this. I thought I was restless, but you give new meaning to the word.”

  The marquess snatched up the glass and downed it on one gulp.

  “What’s taking that baby so long to arrive?” he snapped. “For God’s sake, you’d think the women would let a man into the room if only to ease his own suffering. This worry is bloody well killing me.”

  “I think, Damon, that they are managing very well without you.” He refilled his brother-in-law’s glass. “Here. A toast to your coming heir.”

  “A toast,” the marquess said, and drank.

  Connor looked out over the beautiful English countryside, alive now with the bright virginal greens of early spring. He was thinking about a certain several ships in the English Channel. Ships that were, at this very moment, being sailed as prizes back to Newburyport. . . .

  “. . . Don’t ever get your wife pregnant,” Morninghall was saying, beginning to pace once more. “Oh, she’ll tell you how her back hurts and her stomach’s upset and that she can’t get comfortable at night and that her shoes no longer fit, but I tell you, Connor, her grievances are nothing, nothing, compared to the absolute hell that I’m in right now. Absolute hell, I tell you!”

  “Everything will be fine, Damon. Here, have some more rum.”

  The marquess grabbed the glass, but at that moment Rhiannon suddenly appeared at the doorway. She was smiling, unable to contain her own delight.

  “Come upstairs, Damon,” she said. “You have a baby son.”

  * * *

  The child was named Philip Edward Antony de Wolfe, given some English courtesy title that Connor couldn’t remember and which meant little to him anyhow, and oohed and aahed over by the entire household: the ancient butler, the housekeeper, the servants, the staff, even Rhiannon’s elderly dog Mattie, who sniffed at the newborn in curiosity then gave his red, wrinkled little cheek a swipe with his tongue.

  “I hope you like dogs, Connor,” Rhiannon said as afterward, they skirted a newly-planted field bordered by trees, new in leaf, whose branches waved in the breeze. “It was good of Gwyneth and Damon to take care of him for me while I was away, but I think they’re going to have their hands full for a time.”

  “Well, since we’re starting our own zoo, why not?” Connor said, thinking of the two cats that his father, he’d been told, had handed down into the boat as Kestrel was foundering and which, of course, had ended up on Rapier.

  His mind tracked back to the marquess’ uncharacteristic angst as Gwyneth had been in labor and he wondered if he, when and if the time came, would handle the event with at least a little more calm.

  His wife reached out and put her hand in his, and together, the two moved toward the beautiful Cotswold hills that commanded a view for miles around, the fields newly tilled and planted and divided by ancient hedgerows. There was a decided nip in the air today, a last little reminder that spring was still in its infancy, and Connor was glad that he’d remembered to bring the black cutaway coat he’d bought in Barbados.

  Not that he, far more comfortable in more casual wear, had bothered to wear it since he’d stuffed the thing in a trunk and promptly forgotten about it several hours out of Carlisle Bay.

  “How are you feeling today, Rhiannon?” he asked, as he watched her elderly bird dog, Mattie, trotting far ahead of them, nose to the ground.

  “I feel fine. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, maybe you’re carrying a baby, yourself.”

  “Well, if I am, it’s early days yet, Connor. And when the time comes, I’m sure you’ll give me much to smile about and take my mind off my own discomfort when things start to get a little uncomfortable.”

  The memory of Gwyneth’s screams came suddenly back to him. A little uncomfortable?

  He had a feeling she wouldn’t be smiling.

  Mattie, far ahead, was waiting at the top of the grassy knoll, tongue hanging out, the wind blowing his long, floppy ears back as he turned his face into the breeze.

  Hand-in-hand, they continued their walk and eventually caught up to the dog, who, with a groan, lay down and let the early spring sunshine soak into his fur.

  “Pretty up here,” Connor said, sitting down. “You can see for miles.” His smile was a little rueful as the win
d came up and played with his tousled curls. “Though I confess, it’s a bit constraining, even so.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because we’re too far inland. I can’t see the ocean. I need to see the ocean.”

  “It’s in your blood, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, my love. I guess it is.”

  Rhiannon sat down beside him and happily leaned into the warm strength of his shoulder as his arm curled around her. “Lord of the sea,” she murmured.

  “Hmm?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud. About Gwyneth and me . . . how we each married noblemen, in our own way. She, the lord of Morninghall . . . me, the lord of the sea.”

  Connor’s green eyes glinted, and he laughed, a rich, all-encompassing sound that warmed her very soul.

  “I love you, Rhiannon,” he said, touching his forehead to hers and then letting his lips drift down until they lingered at the side of her mouth. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “I love you, too, Connor. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  He shifted position in order to kiss her better, and as he drew back, anticipating spending the afternoon, perhaps, back in bed with her, he felt something in his coat pocket. Frowning, he dug a hand inside and felt it close on a folded piece of vellum.

  “What’s this?” He pulled it out. “Oh, right, of course. I’d forgotten it, all this time.”

  He started to put it back into his pocket, thinking, only, of pulling his lovely young wife to her feet and finding some place a little less exposed in which to make love to her.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, just a letter from Liam. Probably full of sentimental Irish balderdash or some such thing.”

  “You haven’t read it?”

  He just raised a brow and looked at her.

  “Here,” she said. “Give it to me. I’ll read it for you.” She looked up at him. “If you want.”

  “Aye, sure.” He handed her the letter, grinning. “Go ahead.”

  Rhiannon opened the paper, and immediately, her heart seemed to stop in her throat. She looked up at Connor. “It’s not from Liam,” she whispered. “It’s . . . it’s from your father.”