by Susan Ward
Indy didn’t put a smile with his words, the boy never smiled, but there was a slight altering of his tone. It was the closest thing to a jest she had ever heard from him. It should have pleased her, knowing what a rare gift an attempt at humor was from him. It made her more miserable.
Merry stayed in the chair, not bothering to reach for the food.
“I can’t get dressed. I need some of your clothes.”
The tears were back, plopping on her hands. She hated them. She had never been a woman who had been prone to crying. She cried too easily, of late.
“All the gowns are gone. I ripped them up and then I threw them out the window.” She looked at Indy then. “They were hers. I won’t wear them.”
~~~
The expected knock at the cabin door was a welcome relief, halfway through the evening meal that Morgan ate alone at his table. The girl could carry an air of sadness that could smother a village.
Not rising from the table, he gave permission to enter as he continued with his meal.
Tom passed through the door carrying a small wrapped package, a basket and a letter. The age-carved lines of his face were disgruntled, apprehensive, but mildly, albeit reluctantly, amused. Tom stopped, hovering above him at the table.
“What the hell are you sulking about for, Tom? What do you have there? I am tired and am in no mood for anything lengthy,” Morgan said, pausing in his meal. “What the devil are you carrying? Have I forgotten my birthday, and you wish to rub it in that I am in possession of another year?”
“You’d need more than one more year to catch me, Varian,” Tom said dryly. “Shay brought this aboard ship. It’s a gift from Ryan Shay.”
“Ah. I expect nothing from them and he knows that. Why would he insult me with this gesture?”
“It’s not for you. It’s for the girl,” Tom said in irritation.
Merry hadn’t looked at Tom once since he’d entered, but she was looking now. Her tear brightened blue eyes studied Tom warily, but there was just a hint of curiosity, as well.
He offered her the letter first. Surprise softened her lovely face as she scanned the letter.
Morgan stared at Merry until she finally read the note out loud.
“To my new friend Merry. We are in many ways fighting the same war. I hope you remember kindly your, too-quickly passing moments with us. I know I will, always. With affection and regards, Ryan Shay.” There was a post script in French and Merry read that as well in flawless French. “‘Through luck of birth, one is king, the other a shepherd, fate sets them apart and only the spirit can change it all.’”
She stared down at the letter. She opened the small wrapped package. It was a worn, though expensively bound, volume of Beaumarchais’ poetry and essays. Merry opened the book, touching the dog-eared pages with tiny fingers, and smiled, even while she did an anxious swipe at fresh tears.
Morgan heard her say quietly to Tom, “Thank you for bringing me this, sir.”
Mr. Craven continued to hover.
Merry looked up after several moments, puzzled. It was then she took note of the basket. A basket that made little whimpers and scratching sounds.
Reluctantly Tom handed the basket to Merry and said to Morgan, “If you want me to dispose of it, Varian, I will. I know how you despise small animals.”
Morgan only arched a brow at that. So the basket was the cause of Tom’s excessive reluctance and yes, he did despise it.
Laughing in delight, Merry held a tiny pug up in front of her that was an absurd yapping creation, masquerading as a dog, a red ribbon gaily wrapped about its neck with a tag that said ‘Beau’.
“Ah, a dog with an illustrious namesake. I have a trustworthy friend at last in this hostile captivity,” she exclaimed, lowering it to her face.
Morgan’s thoughts exactly on the matter, though her ingenious use of the word ‘trustworthy’ in her own innocently unknowing way added bite.
“Leave the dog,” was all Morgan said before Tom left. Watching Merry with the pug, he warned, “I am not fond of dogs, Little One. Keep it out of my way. If I find it on my bed I will toss it over the rail.”
CHAPTER TEN
The last of September had given way to October many days past as the sleek hull of the Corinthian plowed southwestward through the roiling seas of the Atlantic Ocean.
The winds were mild and every inch of canvas was unfurled on the masts as the ship made its way across the white caps farther and farther from England.
All around her was only endless horizons of water. Merry Merrick, who had spent her first nineteen years running amuck on a modest farm outside of Falmouth, had spent her last moments in Europe, oddly enough, on a dramatic hillside in Ireland with a pirate captain and a rebel band, running amuck as well.
If there were a warning in that for Merry, she had no wish to figure it out. She was miserable enough these days.
They were three weeks into their journey to the Caribbean, their alarming destination explained to her not by Morgan, but by Shay. Merry had been so furious with Morgan for that.
She had stormed the cabin, tossing all reasonable caution to the wind, with the full force of her temper demanded her return her to Falmouth. He heard her out in silence and then had said, in a low unruffled voice, that she would enjoy the Caribbean as much as she had Ireland, and calmly returned to his book.
It was the reference to Ireland that kept Merry above deck in an unseasonably blistering sun listening to Mr. Seton’s stories about America.
The days had grown steadily warmer as they rode south. Mr. Seton had informed her they were uncommonly so and had gallantly chided it was the charming Merry who had charmed the sun into joining them on this adventure. Even taking the southern route, it was not known to be this warm this time of year.
Brushing anxiously at her hot cheeks, Merry again felt the threatening possession of tears and only with the full exercise of her will managed to prevent them.
In her nineteen years, before Morgan, she had barely shed enough to fill a thimble. Five weeks as his hostage and she could hardly stop them. She suspected these endless buckets were her just punishment for having behaved so repulsively in Morgan’s arms.
Merry was pulled from the depressing bent of her thoughts by a shadow being cast across her, with the lowering of Morgan’s towering frame. He settled her dog, carefully, into the bed of her lap made by sitting cross-legged in Indy’s breeches.
“Merry, when you leave the cabin please take the dog with you,” he said in a playfully chiding voice as he touched her cheek.
He always did it the same way, light, with the tip of his index finger, careless, and quick.
“I am running out of pillows. The dog doesn’t deserve trust until he’s a little older. You’ll see the proof of that when you go back below.”
The curt rejoinder that formed in her mind never made it to voice. Instead, much to her displeasure, she heard herself say, “I am sorry. I won’t forget the dog again.”
Morgan brushed his thumb once across her cheek. She was forced to endure the touch, since they were topside. The presence of the crew was a sharp reminder that her disobedience would not be tolerated outside of the cabin.
“Ah, miracles never cease. Either you’ve finally learned to obey an order or you’ve been on deck too long in the sun, Little One. It’s too early to be hopeful. I think it’s the sun. Don’t stay topside, too long, Merry. I find tiny creatures full of mischief charming.”
Merry tucked her face against the anxiously lapping mutt to hide the flush of embarrassment as Morgan walked off. Since Ireland, she hovered exclusively in the matter-of-fact state of Morgan’s supremely kind manner of inane indifference. There was something unnerving about a man who could make you melt from his passion, then turn course, and completely dismiss you.
Staring at Morgan’s retreating back, Merry held the pug, flicking tongue and all, away from her and chided, “If you don’t behave he’s going to toss you over the rail. You’ve chomped up y
our last pillow. You are existing on this ship on borrowed time.”
The dog began to make that mournful, whimpering sound he always made when he wanted to chase off after Morgan. The stupid creature adored the man. She made a stern frown and then laughed when the dog whimpered louder. She looked at Mr. Seton, who was smiling at her in that droopy way he had at times when he watched her.
She ignored the look, and said, “This dog has no instinct at all. Morgan hates him and he scratches at the door crying whenever he leaves the cabin. One of these days the dog is going to trot up behind him on the quarterdeck and find himself kicked over the rail. I suppose it’s because it makes him look lamblike to have man’s best friend adoring man’s worst fiend.”
Mr. Seton’s smile changed from droopy to dazzlingly amused. “It will take more than a scrap of fur to make Morgan look lamblike. Regardless, the dog knows who brought him here, and knows he’s not in danger. Instinct intact.”
Merry’s eyes widen at that. “What do you mean, ‘who brought him here’? The dog was a gift from Ryan Shay.”
“Where the devil did you get that idea, Merry?”
Eyes widening even more, she said to Mr. Seton, “He came with a book and a letter from Ryan Shay. Mr. Craven’s didn’t tell me otherwise. Who are you thinking the dog is from?” And then with a laugh, she added, “Surely not, Mr. Craven. Tell me it is not so.”
Mr. Seton’s handsome golden brows pulled into a frown at once, as though she were being unaccountably slow in all this.
Shaking his head, he said, “Morgan didn’t tell you the dog was from him? There are times the man is a Chinese puzzle that could keep even God baffled. What’s the point of bringing a dog as a gift without letting the gift recipient know you’re doing it? I will never be able to figure out the man. Do you think a dog would be on this ship, with how he hates them, if he didn’t bring it? He spent his last morning in Ireland looking for the darn thing. Left the Wythford tart cooling in the sheets early. She was none too pleased. Every man not doing their trick on ship was out getting their last drop of female hospitality, and there’s Morgan looking for a dog. Tully and I laughed ourselves to jelly over that. It was hard not to laugh in his face as he carried the little fluff on ship. Quite an incongruous picture, to say the least.”
Merry managed to ignore the proper reaction of modesty that should have claimed her with the implications of the terms ‘female hospitality’ and ‘cooling in the sheets’. It was a necessity of survival in a world exclusively of men not to be modest. Modesty and pirates, the ultimate incongruity.
She settled her chin in the cup of her hand and stared at Beau. Disbelieving, she asked, “Why would he give me a dog and not tell me?”
Mr. Seton did a lazy roll with his shoulders. “I don’t know, Merry. Take everything he does with a grain of salt and stay clear of him for your own well-being. Morgan is not lamblike.”
Brandon reclined on an elbow, watching Merry study the dog as if to find sorely wanted answers there. As impossible as it seemed, in over a month, Morgan hadn’t taken her to his bed. Morgan made his way through the flowers of the field with a machete. Brandon couldn’t imagine what prompted the captain to leave this flower intact. There were any number of opinions to be found aboard ship in regards to that.
Some claimed that it was a sign that Morgan had a heart. Others whispered that she was his daughter. Then, there were those who thought he meant to keep her intact to fetch the best price when he sold her.
Brandon wasn’t as inventive as the crew. He was also inclined to believe it was only a matter of time when the question wouldn’t be debated below decks, at all. The Atlantic crossing was a long voyage and Merry was uncommonly beautiful. As unfathomable as Morgan was at times, Morgan was still a man.
He lifted a hand to scratch the dog’s head, careful not to brush against those delicate fingers moving there.
“Are you all right, Merry? You seemed troubled of late. Morgan doesn’t hurt you, does he?”
“He treats me like I am his sister. He’s more likely to ignore me than harm me. Why would you wonder if he hurts me?”
“You got him heated up in Ireland, then you pushed him away. He is not a man accustom to having a woman push him away. You bruised his vanity well, my dear. I was concerned he may have pushed back.”
Wanting to be worldly in this discussion, knowing she was failing because she could feel her blush, she said, “He didn’t push back. He is completely indifferent to me.”
“Indifferent?” Mr. Seton laughed so long and loudly it drew stares from the crew. When his ha-has, faded into little gasps, he explained, “Oh, flower, the man threatened to put a bullet between my eyes if I so much as touched you with a finger. That is not indifference.”
Merry stared at Brandon Seton then, wondering if she had heard him correctly. It made the way Morgan treated her, all the more baffling. Before she could probe Mr. Seton further about this, he was gone. Someone from the crow’s nest had cried ‘sail ho,’ and the lazy afternoon on ship exploded into well-organized action.
Shortly before sunset, the Corinthian had taken a French schooner in a battle that had consisted of a single canon blast. Standing at the port rail, Merry watched her first experience of piracy at sea, surprisingly entertained by it instead of feeling the expected outrage.
The revelry of the pirates and their exuberant frolicking in the longs boats as they went about transferring the cargo made them look more like naughty little school boys up to mischief, rather than scourge committing villainy. The schooner’s cargo had held a healthy supply of fine French liquor. Earlier in the afternoon, Shay had tossed her a bottle of Bordeaux, for her ladyship’s pleasure, with a silly promise to teach her, no less than a dozen drinking games when he was through.
Now, shortly before darkness would blanket the sky, she leaned laughingly over the rail as Shay tipped from a long boat. That brought a full chorus of blustering from the lad as the pirates in his boat tried to fish Shay from the water. He was making preposterous swipes at Indy as the boy tried to retrieve him from the Atlantic. To her greater amusement, when they managed to lock hands, Shay only pulled Indy into the water with him. She suspected the drinking lesson would be short tonight, since the open bottle that had fallen from Shay’s fingers as he plunged from the boat was probably not the first he’d imbibed.
“Oh, Indy is going to be grim tonight,” she said softly to pug, as Shay bounced on Indy’s head to submerge him in the water.
“Indy is usually grim. It’s remarkable how often that he is not so with you.”
Merry tried not to blush. Morgan was standing close, assessing her idly. It had surprised her he was even aware she’d been here at the rail.
He’d sat on the quarterdeck with Mr. Craven, through it all, as he watched the men in their duties. At some time before the meager battle, he had changed into his severe costume of all black. It was a brilliant contrast to the gleaming red tint of sunlight cast by the fall of the day, dark waves capering in wind, black eyes dancing rakishly. He hadn’t looked at her once all afternoon. It was pride that kept Merry from looking at him more than she could stop herself.
He looked at the wine in her hand and his eyes took on a smile. “Where did you get that?” he asked her. “Have you taken to skimming from my spoils before I have a chance to tally them?”
That made her tense, uncertain if this were a crime aboard ship. It seemed hardly possible, with how many of the crew had bottles in hand. She decided not to tell him that Shay had given it her.
Her silence only amused him. Touching her cheek, he said on a laugh, “I was only teasing. Though, I don’t recommend the drinking games, since the men are apt to get a little rough in their conduct tonight when they’ve finished with their work.”
So he had been watching her. Her attendant reaction to that was unwelcomed. “I guess gentlemanly conduct would be too much to expect from the scourge of the sea,” she quipped playfully, enormously pleased she was able to do so.
>
He lightly cupped her chin and said, “It is much too much to expect gentlemanly conduct from the scourge, Little One. It would serve you better to expect rogues and to keep your wits about you. Now run along, Merry, and take the dog below with you, or one of the crew is apt to use it for target practice, if he gets under foot.”
Attractive smile creases bracketed his black eyes, but his words had been merely dismissive, one of his lazy efforts to get her out of the way. Dropping the bottle in his hand, she picked up the dog. Merry’s sole consolation was that she managed not to run from him.
Her internal unrest was hardly improved by an evening spent alone in the cabin, listening to the men and Morgan’s laughter above deck.
Much to her dismay, she found herself near the stroke of midnight in Morgan’s chair, devouring of all things Mary Wollstonecraft’s Maria, The Wrongs of a Woman. She’d plucked it from the shelf, amused by its presence in Morgan’s decidedly male domain. Much to her displeasure, she found herself fascinated by the scandalous thoughts pressed on pages. They were, at best, a poor ally for a girl, whose first experience of desire was in the arms of a man, who was ever so wrong for her. Her stomach turned as she fought to focus on the book and turned a page.
The door opened and in from the deck floated music, laughter, and misery. The rosy light of the lamp fell in sparkling points across Morgan. He carried with him the moisture dew of a sea mist that held shimmers on his jet hair, the elegant chiseled features of his face, relaxed and wind fresh, and the darkly tanned flesh of his sculptured forearms where his cuffs had been rolled up halfway.
The cabin was filled at once with his presence, the natural scent of him, touched of tobacco and a sigh of wintergreen. Both the fragrance and sight of him ran through her like a sultry caress. No matter how she fought it, it was not possible to look at this man and not feel reaction all through her. Sometimes at night, she’d wake just to watch him sleep, and there was still that awe, that fascination of him even when he was doing nothing.