My Saving Grace

by Harmon, Danelle

  43

  Barbados appeared as a brilliant green jewel riding atop the aqua expanse of the Caribbean.

  Standing at the rail of the poop deck, the massive expanse of the warship’s length spread out before her, Grace threw back her head, let the warm breezes play with the frilly brim of her bonnet, and smiled. Above her head, acres of sail, one stacked above the other on what she now knew was the mizzenmast, bellied hard to the fore, braced to take advantage of the wind that had pushed them across the Atlantic these past several weeks. Their shadows spilled across the quarterdeck, the waist of the ship, the foredeck, each a place where lieutenants commanded contingents of men and organized them into work parties devoted to each sail, each task, each command.

  She shaded her eyes with her hand, turned, and looked down at the quarterdeck before her. It was the heart of the ship, the place where all orders originated and the massive double-spoked wheel, manned by two helmsmen and overseen by the sailing master, reigned. It was the place reserved for the admiral and his captain and those immediately responsible for the ship’s command.

  And there he was. Her husband.

  He stood near the great wheel, hands caught behind his back, shoulders proud beneath their gold-laced epaulets and the wind playing with the long tails of his blue uniform coat as he took a spyglass, trained it on that distant rim of emerald, grinned, and said something to her uncle. He was not immune to the feel of eyes upon him and feeling hers, he turned, caught her watching him, and taking off his hat, swept it before him in a playful, gallant bow, his smile bright.

  She waved back.

  In the weeks that had transpired during the crossing, she had seen the man at work, the man at worry, the man responsible for running a ship of six hundred souls who all depended on him, the man who must placate and serve an admiral on one hand, the Royal Navy’s demands on the other, and the welfare and good spirits of those who served both. She had lain with him while he’d stared up into the darkness, worried about whether a shift in wind might add another week to their schedule and if that would mean they’d have to ration stores in order to make what they had, last. She’d seen him maintain his patience when a young midshipman had bumbled his relaying of an order, later having a quiet word with the lieutenant who had come down a little too hard on the boy. She’d seen him working late into the night at his desk, seen him playing cards with his clerk, seen every scar on his body, every imperfection of his skin, even the little birthmark that rode his left hipbone and seemed to bear the shape of a boat.

  She had remarked on it.

  “Funny-looking thing, isn’t it?” he’d said, as they’d lain cozied up together on the window cushions, a panoramic view of the sea just outside. “My mother told me that it crops up every so often in her family line. Her grandfather had it.” He’d smiled as she’d traced the odd shape with a finger. “It’s always the same. A faint discoloration that looks remarkably like an old galley.”

  “A galley?”

  “A sort of ship, dearest, common some two hundred years ago.”

  She’d put her lips to it then, kissing it.

  “What does it mean, Del?”

  “Well, it may be nothing more than a random coming together of pigment. But family lore claims it’s the mark of a long-ago ancestress on my mother’s side, an Irishwoman who was a chieftain in her own right and who sailed the seas as a pirate. She was bold and fierce and feared nothing and no one, and even sailed all the way from the west coast of Ireland to England and up the Thames to London, where she managed to secure an audience with Queen Elizabeth herself.”

  “That is fascinating! What was her name?”

  “Gráinne Ní Mháille.”

  The strange Irish language fell from his lips as though born to them, and Grace raised her brows.

  “Yes, I speak my mother’s native tongue,” he said, grinning.

  “And yet you could not appear more English.”

  “Half-English,” he murmured, pulling her close and running his fingers through her hair.

  She tried to pronounce the strange name, but it came out sounding like she had something caught in her throat.

  He laughed. “The English had a name for her. A name that you’ll find much easier to pronounce, because you share it.”

  “What?”

  “Grace,” he murmured, looking into her eyes. “Grace O’Malley.”

  “Oh...”

  “The birthmark,” he said, “is only part of it. Those who receive it are said to have a special connection with Gráinne.”

  “And do you believe that?”

  He looked away, his gaze going out over the sea, his eyes becoming reflective and far away. “I do,” he said. “The part of me that is Irish believes it entirely.”

  “You don’t seem the sort to be fanciful, Del. But we have the rest of our lives to discover each other’s secrets, do we not?”

  “Aye, dear heart. We do.”

  And now, the fresh tropical wind and sparkling sunshine all around them, she gazed lovingly down at him there on the quarterdeck, while Ned Falconer climbed the steps to where she sat and thrust a finger toward the approaching island. “There is it, Grace. Barbados! Oh, you’ll love it here, it’s warm and beautiful and we even have a statue of Lord Nelson. I can’t wait to show you around.”

  “I will enjoy that, Ned.”

  He sobered and looked very serious and grown up all of a sudden. “I’m glad you came to your senses, you know. There was never anyone else for you but Captain Lord.”

  “I know that,” she said, thinking about the odd disclosure about his ancestor with whom she shared a name. About how she had loved him from the beginning, but had been too hardheaded, too afraid to take the risk, to see it.

  Grace leaned her elbows on the rail and looked down at the quarterdeck below, Ned beside her.

  “If that island is as beautiful up close as it appears to be from this far out, I can see why your father couldn’t wait to get back to it,” she said, already feeling excitement about her new home.

  “It is, Grace. Oh, trust me, it is! And any moment now, Captain Lord, if he is cautious, is going to call for all sail to be struck save for the barest minimum to maintain headway.”

  “And if he is not cautious?”

  “He’ll charge into the Carlisle Bay with every sail set and flying, turn her neatly into the wind, fire a salute and have the sails struck and the boats out before the smoke even clears. Very impressive display, that, flashy and even a bit reckless and Papa would be impressed, as it’s a very easy thing to mess up and any number of things can go awry.” He grinned. ‘But damn, it looks good when done right.”

  “Ned, such language!”

  He laughed.

  “But Captain Lord’ll take the cautious approach,” he predicted. “He always does.”

  And he did. Perhaps it was because of the strength of the wind, perhaps it was because it was a safer bet, or maybe it was simply because while the flag captain had a smart and well-drilled crew who could sail his ship through the eye of a needle if he commanded it, Captain Delmore Lord was solid and dependable and liked things done in ways that were predictably safe rather than stylishly flamboyant— even if the latter would have impressed his admiral. They glided around the southernmost coast of the island, pushed along hard by the trades with a strong following sea, turned north, and with HMS Orion’s massive jibboom pointed squarely on the small forest of masts dotting Carlisle Bay, Del did exactly as Ned predicted he would do.

  Grace heard him give the command.

  “Strike all sail save for jibs and topsails, Mr. Armstrong. And the spanker too. Smartly, now, and prepare to come about.”

  “Look lively lads!”

  “Anchor party, at the ready!”

  The massive warship, the wind coming in now over her starboard beam, began to lose way, the pitch of water creaming past her hull lessening in pitch, her decks beginning to heel a bit to leeward.

  “Ready about,” the capt
ain called.

  “Ready about!”

  Immediately the helmsman was turning the great wheel, the man-of-war was sliding into the harbor and quickly losing way as she met the wind head-on.

  “Let go!”

  The rattle of chain, a splash as the massive bow anchor was let go, sinking down, down, through the crystalline depths and biting into a sea bottom it hadn’t tasted since last resting in Portsmouth’s cold gray harbor several thousand miles away.

  And then all the warships in the harbor were firing thunderous salutes as the admiral was welcomed home, and Del was vaulting lightly up the steps and hooking an arm around her waist and kissing her, right there in front of all to see.

  The crew, all six hundred of them, sent up a thunderous cheer and threw their hats into the air.

  “It may be a long time before we return to England, my dear Grace. In the meantime, welcome home,” he said, grinning. “Welcome home.”

  Epilogue

  Hambledon, Hampshire, England, 1820

  The ancient Celtic cross still hung around her neck. Its hammered gold and raw emeralds gleamed as richly as they ever had, and its mysteries continued to beckon. As it had been for Del and his siblings, it was now a source of fascination and mystery for their children.

  The little ones gathered around their grandmother in a reverent circle on the floor. The boys in the group, perhaps even some of the girls, all fancied a career at sea just like their fathers and grandfathers before them. Colin’s four boys, Kit, Cameron, Jonathan and Aaron. His sole daughter, Tabitha. And their cousins, newly-arrived from Barbados, where their father had served as Admiral Sir Graham Falconer’s flag captain until his own promotion to Rear-Admiral of the Blue.

  Colin and Ariadne’s brood studied their newfound cousins, wondering if they were to be friend or enemy, partner in crime or bitter rivals. The ritual of Grandma Deirdre passing around the ancient cross that had belonged to the venerable Gráinne Ní Mháille was theirs, and they were not all that keen on sharing it.

  Or her.

  Let alone, the cross itself.

  As Grace, her belly already swelling with their third child, sat down on the floor beside her sister-in-law Ariadne, with little two-year-old Fiona balanced on one knee and son Justin trying to muscle his way closer to his grandmother, Del sidestepped closer to his brother, Colin.

  “Which story do you think she’ll tell them today? The one about Queen Maeve of Connacht, since Sir Graham’s wife shares her name?”

  “Oh, I’d lay money on it being one about Granuaile.”

  “Hmm.” Del rubbed at his jaw. “Aye, so would I.”

  Deirdre O’Devir Lord glanced up at her husband, leaning against the door jamb and admiring his grandchildren. She reached to her neck, dragged out the ancient relic on its heavy chain and let the children get a good, wide-eyed look at it. The old admiral caught Del’s gaze and winked.

  “Grace O’Malley,” he mouthed, agreeing with his two sons.

  “...And far, far away, in the magical place that is Ireland, there lived a strong, proud woman with wildly curling hair and a ferocity in battle that had enemies far an’ wide terrified of her. She commanded her own fleet o’ ships, and she was Ireland’s very own pirate queen...”

  “Told you,” Colin said, leaning in close to Del.

  Del shook his head. “Told you,” he replied.

  Their mother was warming to the tale. “Her base was on the wild western coast in a county called Mayo, where she had a castle all her own, called Rockfleet. From there, she ruled th’ seas and commanded a great galley—”

  “As big as Papa’s ship, Orion?”

  “Ohhh, much bigger than that,” Deirdre said in her musical Irish lilt.

  Del and Colin exchanged glances. Colin looked away to stifle his laughter and Del wiped helplessly at the smirk that he was helpless to prevent. Their mother’s powers of exaggeration seemed to expand with each telling of the story.

  And so the tale went on. How much of it was true, neither of Deirdre’s two adult sons actually knew. They stood together, listening to the timeless story with as much attention as they had in their childhood, young once more, enraptured once more, two brothers who could not be more different, their families bound across time and space to this woman that none of them had ever met, though Del, had he been asked, might beg to differ on that.

  “And she went alllll the way up th’ mighty River Thames,” their mother was saying, holding her arms wide to indicate how grand that mighty river actually was, “to meet the Queen of England herself...”

  Colin had his arms folded across his chest, his eyes distant and fond.

  “All the way to London, Grandma?”

  “All the way t’ London and to Queen Elizabeth’s glittering palace, where she was granted an audience with none other than Her Majesty herself! She did Ireland proud that day, our Gráinne!”

  Del caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turning his head, saw Gráinne Ní Mháille standing there in the moonlight slanting in from the window.

  She smiled and winked at him.

  “It’s true,” she said. “Every word of it.”

  The others never heard her, of course. Not even Colin. But within the circle, little Fiona, who had crawled from her mother’s lap and gone up to sit next to her older brother, suddenly looked toward the window. Little Fiona, who had curling black ringlets and flashing eyes and the shape of a ship high on her left shoulder.

  The child’s eyes widened and she turned around, seeking her father’s gaze.

  “Papa?”

  Del knew what his daughter had seen. Knew that she would be guided and guarded throughout her life by their formidable grandmother as he himself had been.

  “All true,” he said cryptically, echoing their ancestor. “Every word of it.”

  The child nodded and returned her attention to her grandmother. The story continued.

  Del looked back toward the window, but Grace O’Malley, pirate queen of the Irish seas, was gone.

  — the end —

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you’ve enjoyed this story; Del had been waiting for some time to find love, and I don’t think he could have found a better or more suitable soulmate than Lady Grace. I enjoyed telling their tale, and it was great fun for me to revisit old and established characters who have become quite dear to me and hopefully, also, to you: Sir Graham and Maeve Falconer... Connor Merrick... Kieran Merrick... Christian and Deirdre Lord... Colin and Ariadne... Tristan and Letitia. All of them have stories of their own in the Heroes Of the Sea series, more of which can be found in the end pages of this book. (In fact, if you keep reading, you can get a sneak peek of Master Of My Dreams— the story of Del’s and Colin’s parents!)

  In the meantime, being a novelist can be a lonely job, and it’s always validating to know that readers are enjoying our work. If you liked this story, please consider posting a review on either Amazon, Goodreads, or whatever other forums you think are appropriate. Only a few lines are needed. Reviews help authors enormously, and are always very gratefully appreciated.

  Thank you, and God bless!

  — Danelle

  Master of My Dreams

  By Danelle Harmon

  Prologue

  Ireland, 1762

  The press gang was in.

  One could tell by the way a thick pall had come over the land, like mist snuffing out the noonday sun. One could tell by the way the little village that clung to the sea’s edge grew quiet and seemed to huddle within itself, the people slamming shut the doors of their whitewashed cottages and watching the roads from behind slitted curtains. One could tell by the way the taverns emptied and the young lads fled into the hills that climbed toward the majestic purple ridge of the twelve mountains, where they would hide until the threat had passed.

  And one could tell by the big, three-masted man-of-war that filled the harbor.

  England was still at war with Fr
ance—and not everyone wanted to fight.

  It was an infrequent threat, the Royal Navy seeking its unwilling recruits from this bleak, storm-tossed area of western Ireland that even God seemed to have forgotten. No able-bodied young man was safe from the press gang. And so it was that little Deirdre O’Devir, holding tightly to her mama’s hand and clutching with pale white fingers the ancient Celtic cross that hung from around her neck, solemnly bade her older brother good-bye. Roddy had blown her a careless, laughing kiss; then the door had banged shut behind him as he ran to join the steady stream of young lads who cheerfully whistled and sang as they headed into hiding at the ruins of the old, haunted castle, far up in the hills where even the dreaded English would dare not go.

  Then she and Mama had bolted the door and, huddling together beside the snapping, smoking peat fire, waited.

  Roddy had said they had nothing to fear, for the press gang didn’t take lassies. But as Deirdre stood at the window and looked off toward the sea, where she could see the towering masts of the man-of-war silhouetted against the brooding clouds, curiosity got the best of her. She had to see for herself just what was so terrible about the English and its Navy, which everyone so feared and hated.

  After all, her dear cousin Brendan, who’d been raised right here in Connemara, was a midshipman in the Royal Navy, and despite having a British admiral for a daddy, was as much an Irishman as she or Roddy. Surely, if Brendan was in the Navy, it couldn’t be as evil as everyone said it was ... could it?

  Raising her chin, Deirdre made up her mind. Mama would never know if she sneaked out for just a bit. She was a wee mite, even for a seven-year-old; it was a simple thing to crawl out her window after she had made an excuse to steal off to her room. Once outside, she vaulted over the stone fence and rode away on Thunder, her own, well-loved pony.