Surrender the Sea

by Marylu Tyndall

  “I have every intention of following through with my obligation, miss.” He folded his arms across his chest and shifted his blue eyes to the massive trunk perched by an archway that led to his sleeping chamber. A breeze blew in from the open door, feathering the hair that touched his collar. The muscles in his jaw twitched, but he would not look at her.

  He was lying. She knew it. “Is that what I am, an obligation? How romantic.”

  He chuckled. “If you want romance, I suggest you search for it somewhere else—in one of those tawdry novels coming out of London, perhaps?” He quirked a dark eyebrow so at odds with his light brown hair. Then grew serious. “While we are being honest, Miss Denton, you know as well as I that it is your dowry that has drawn us together.”

  Of course she knew that. Then why did his admission cause her heart to ache? Perhaps because it crushed her childhood dreams of someday finding love and romance in the arms of an admirable man. A man nothing like the one standing before her. But then again, why would she expect anything extraordinary to happen to someone ordinary like her? She folded her hands in her lap. “Have no care, Captain. I do not flatter myself to think otherwise. But your desperation must be exceedingly great to force your agreement to such an undesirable match.”

  Noah adjusted the cuffs of his white shirt then cocked his head toward her. “What has me quite vexed, Miss Denton, is what benefit this match is for you. It is obvious you loathe me.”

  “Loathe is a strong word.” She batted the air, trying to avoid the question. The smell of wine and leather and aged wood filled her nose. She couldn’t very well tell Noah that she and her mother were nearly destitute, that without this marriage, they could not touch the inheritance her father left her and purchase the much-needed medicines to keep her mother alive. She wasn’t lying to him. He would receive the seven thousand dollars of her dowry the moment they married. But what he didn’t know was that he would receive nothing else, no jewelry, or silverware, satin sheets, china, Persian rugs, or any of the luxuries her mother had been forced to sell this past year. Instead he would acquire only Marianne, her sister, and a sick mother-in-law. So, Marianne simply responded, “Our fathers wished it.”

  He eyed her curiously. “Your father would not wish you unhappy, miss. I assure you I will not make you a good husband.”

  Marianne gripped the arm of the chair. Her throat went dry. “Why are you trying to dissuade me when you have admitted that you need my money?”

  He shrugged and stared out the open door down the corridor. “I see how my presence upsets you. It would no doubt be pure torture for you should we marry.”

  “What upsets me is your behavior.”

  “Unfortunately the two cannot be separated.”

  “That is not true. People can change if they want to. God can change people.”

  “What has He to do with it?”

  Marianne flinched. “God has everything to do with everything.” “If that is so, then He has much to answer for.” He frowned and turned to stare out the stern windows.

  “You should not say such things, Noah.” Marianne’s heart saddened. His family had faced tragedy, as had hers. But she had not forsaken God. Or had she? Certainly her trust in Him had waned.

  She struggled to her feet. “Enough of this. I cannot sail to England with you. My mother is ill and needs my help.”

  He faced her. “She has servants who will attend to her, I am sure.”

  In truth, no. “Only I can see to her properly. And my little sister will be lost without me. I simply cannot be gone for months.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have snuck aboard my ship.”

  She stomped her foot, the hard wood sending a dull ache through her silk slippers. “Then you shouldn’t have run away from me.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, and the features of his face grew tight. She wondered if he still had the same nasty temper he had as a boy. “Confound it all, I stand to make a great deal of money on this voyage, Miss Denton. Perhaps even more than your dowry is worth.”

  More than her dowry? Then he wouldn’t need her. Fear clogged in Marianne’s throat. She couldn’t allow that to happen.

  “But time is of the essence,” he continued, “And I cannot waste two days returning you home. I’m afraid you are here for the duration of the voyage. There is nothing I can do about it.”

  The ship pitched, and Marianne shifted her feet to catch her balance. A salt-laden breeze swirled about the room. The candle flickered, and a chill slid down her back. The mad dash of water against the hull mocked her as fear for her mother battled for preeminence against fear of the sea.

  “You don’t understand. I cannot be aboard this ship.” Tears burned behind her eyes, but she would not disclose her fears and provide him with more ammunition with which to badger her.

  “But the fact is you are, miss. By your own accord, I might add. And as such, you will be my guest until we return home. Though nothing like the elegance you are accustomed to, I assure you the ship will be quite comfortable.”

  Marianne felt the blood drain from her face as dizziness threatened to spin her vision. She grabbed the chair for support and closed her eyes.

  Noah’s boots thumped across the planks. He took both her hands in his. “You have not yet recovered from your wound, Miss Denton. I’ll show you to your cabin.”

  The gentle way he caressed her fingers sent unwanted warmth through her. She opened her eyes.

  “What have we here?” He flipped over her hands. Red, crusty calluses stared up at them both. Marianne snatched her hands from his. “It is nothing. It must have happened when the crate struck me.”

  She took a step back.

  He narrowed his blue eyes upon her.

  “Very well, Noah.” She conceded to allay his suspicion. “Perhaps I do need some rest. You may show me to my room.”

  He stiffened at her condescending tone, but it couldn’t be helped. It was the only way for her to recover from what he had seen on her hands. If he knew she worked as a common servant in her own house, he would no doubt call the wedding off.

  Grabbing a lantern from his desk, he gestured toward the door and gave a mock bow. “This way, miss.”

  Lifting her nose in the air, Marianne followed him down the narrow hallway, lit by intermittent lanterns to another door not far from the captain’s. He opened it to a space no bigger than a closet. A box- framed bed attached to the wall filled most of the room, save for a tiny shelf for belongings. A foul, moldy smell swamped over her.

  But Marianne didn’t care. She’d grown accustomed to sleeping in a chair by her mother’s bedside, so truth be told, the stuffed tick on the bed appeared more than inviting.

  After placing the lantern on the shelf, Noah leaned on the door-frame and watched her as she eased past him, brushing his arm. “Thank you, Noah.”

  His eyes widened and he studied her as if she’d said the sea was made of blue pudding.

  She pressed down the folds of her gown and shook her head. “What I meant to say was, I suppose it will have to do.”

  “Yes, it will. Sleep well, Miss Denton.” He gave her a sly wink before shutting the door. His boot steps pounded his exit down the hallway.

  Marianne sank onto the knotty mattress. She didn’t intend to sleep. She had planning to do. Noah must not have any reason to break off their engagement. Her mother’s life depended on it. Therefore, she must discover a way to do one of two things: Either make Noah fall madly in love with her or stop him from making his fortune by sabotaging his ship. The former made her sick to her stomach.

  The latter brought a smile to her lips.

  Chapter 5

  Inhaling a deep breath, Marianne trudged up the ladder that led to the main deck. The sound of her stomach gurgling rose even above the crash of waves against the hull. She had hoped to remain below today where she could more easily forget she was in the middle of the ocean. Besides, she had to plan the best way to sabotage the ship, and she wanted to investigate th
e lower decks. But the biscuit and jam she’d eaten for breakfast were not cooperating. In fact, they rebelled quite vehemently. She poked her head above deck, and a gust of wind tore at the hair she’d managed to pin up in a loose bun despite the bandage wrapped around her head.

  Pressing down her skirts to keep them from flying up, Marianne took the final step above. Fear threatened to send her below. She tried to calm her rapid breathing, afraid the heaving of her chest might tear the gown Agnes had lent her—a garment that had obviously belonged to a much thinner woman than Marianne.

  Face forward, she inched her trembling feet to the mainmast, grabbed the rough wood, and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to quell the ferocious beating of her heart. Sounds of footsteps, shouts, the gurgle of water, and creak of wood assailed her ears. Hot rays from a sun sitting high in the blue sky scorched her tender skin.

  Lord, I need Your help. I need Your strength. Please grant me Your peace and help me find a way to get back home to my mother. The ship canted, and she planted her feet slightly apart to brace herself, realizing how unfamiliar prayer had become to her. Please watch over her and Lizzie in my absence. And please help me find a way to ensure Noah marries me. The remains of her biscuit rose in her throat. She swallowed them down. Or if there’s another way to save my mother and Lizzie without marrying that beef-witted clod. . . She hesitated beneath a spark of guilt. Forgive me, Lord. The ship pitched and a salty spray showered over her. One more thing, Lord. If You don’t mind, please keep this ship afloat. Amen.

  She should have felt better—more at peace—like she used to feel after praying, but instead all she felt was the ever-present anxiety that had plagued her since her father died and dragged the entire family fortune with him into the depths of Baltimore harbor. The notes of Papa’s funeral dirge had scarce faded when creditors descended on their home like a pack of wolves to collect on his gambling debts. Though he had not been the most affectionate or attentive parent, Marianne had always believed he would care for his family. When he died, she lost more than a father, and more than their fortune, Marianne had lost her trust.

  Her trust in man and her trust in God.

  “Miss?” A gruff voice startled her, and she snapped her eyes open to see a tall man peering down at her. The same man who had helped her to her feet when she’d first come aboard—or rather fell aboard. Beneath his floppy hat, thick black hair whipped over his shoulders in the wind. “The captain inquires as to your health.” Her gaze shot unbidden to a patch of rippled skin that scarred the left side of his face. He seemed to notice the direction of her eyes and frowned. Shoving aside her ill ease at the deformity, Marianne smiled instead and met his eyes directly.

  “Oh he does, does he, Mr. . . .”

  “Mr. Weller, miss.” Intelligent brown eyes examined her from within a face that, despite the scar, appeared young. He nodded at the death grip she had on the mast. “And he insists you go below if you’re not feeling well.”

  Releasing the mast, Marianne cocked her head. “Insists, you say?” She glanced up at the quarterdeck where Noah stood by the wheel glaring down at her, his purple plume bending to the breeze. She could not make out his eyes in the shadow of his hat.

  Ever present, his salacious accomplice, Mr. Heaton, stood by his side.

  Retrieving a handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed the perspiration on her neck and faced Mr. Weller. “And what is your position aboard the ship, sir?”

  He stared agape at her as if no one had ever asked the question. “I am the ship’s gunner and supercargo, miss.”

  “What does a supercargo do?” She could well assume what function a gunner served.

  “I handle the transfer of all monies, miss, along with carrying out all selling and buying at each port of call.”

  Marianne smiled. This man could be very useful to her. “Indeed. Do you know much of the workings of the ship?”

  “Aye, miss. I suppose.” He tugged upon his red scarf, his brows scrunching together beneath the brim of his hat.

  Tucking that information away for a more propitious time, Marianne sighed. “Very well, Mr. Weller, would you do me the honor of escorting me up to see the captain? I should like to speak with him, and I am unaccustomed to the shifting deck.”

  A slow smile lifted his lips. “Why, yes, miss.” He extended his arm, but suddenly snapped it back and shoved his hand into his pocket. But not before she saw that only two fingers remained upon it.

  He gestured with his other hand toward the ladder and started in that direction. Marianne had no idea what had happened to this man, but she did know how it felt to be less than perfect, to be flawed. Weaving her arm through his, she pulled his hand from his pocket and gave him her best smile.

  He eyed her curiously, then led her to the stairs and up onto the quarterdeck just as “A sail, a sail!” bellowed down from the crosstrees.

  ♦♦♦

  “Where away?” Noah yelled, trying to ignore Miss Denton, who took a spot beside him.

  “Off our larboard quarter.”

  Cursing under his breath, Noah raised his spyglass and focused on the horizon. Most likely another merchant ship. Nothing to get over- wrought about. Certainly less remarkable than the scene he’d just witnessed amidships. Miss Marianne Denton, highbrow extraordinaire, treating scared and deformed Mr. Weller with not only kindness but also compassion. Even from his position above her, Noah had seen the slight cringe on her expression the moment she caught sight of his face. He’d waited for the expected turn of her nose and polite excuse to leave. Shock gripped him at what he beheld instead.

  Now, she stood beside him, one hand lifted to cover her eyes as she peered in the direction of his scope, the other hand clutching the railing in such a tight grip, her fingers reddened. The scent of fresh soap wafted over him—no doubt given her by Agnes. The clean lavender smell—a rare one among sailors—tickled his nose and aroused his guilt. Miss Denton should not be at sea. Born to opulence and ease, she was like a duchess among degenerates aboard this ship of rough, crude sailors.

  He adjusted the scope until three sails, glutted with wind, came into view. His chest tightened. Not a merchant ship. He handed the glass to Luke.

  “What do you make of her?” he asked.

  His first mate studied the ship for several seconds before giving Noah a look of concern. “A British warship.”

  “Yes.” Noah took the glass and nodded. “A frigate was my guess.”

  “She appears to be gaining, sir.” Luke scowled.

  Miss Denton faced him, her chest heaving and her brown eyes wide. “Will they attack us, Mr. Brenin?”

  Noah flexed the muscles in his jaw.

  “Captain.” She huffed. “Will they attack us?”

  Noah angled his lips and shrugged. “Why would they?”

  “They may try an’ impress us.” Mr. Pike offered from his position at the wheel behind them.

  “Balderdash, Mr. Pike. We have no one on board who deserted the British navy.” Yet even as he uttered the confident declaration, his glance took in Mr. Weller, who stood at the foot of the quarterdeck ladder. Though the man hadn’t directly deserted the Royal Navy, he had allowed them to presume him dead when the brig sloop he served aboard went down in a squall four years ago.

  Mr. Weller’s gaze met his, and Noah saw raw fear leap in his eyes at the sight of one of His Majesty’s ships heading straight toward them.

  “Never fear, Mr. Weller,” Noah said. “It will not come to that. However, go below and ready the guns in the off chance we need them.” Which they wouldn’t, of course. Not only because it would be suicide to go up against a British frigate with Noah’s small armament, but because all Noah’s dealings with the British had proved them an honorable people. Despite the stories he heard on the docks, Noah did not believe the British would steal Americans to serve on their ships. Regardless, he wanted to give his gunner something to do that would help ease his fears.

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Weller nodded and jumped
down the ladder.

  The ship swooped over a roller, flinging creamy spray across the bow. Miss Denton’s knuckles whitened on the railing. She seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  Fear. He recognized it well. Mind-numbing, debilitating fear. But of what? The frigate? Him? Or was it an act?

  Regardless, he had no time for her theatrics. “Make all sail, Mr. Heaton. That should give them the message that we haven’t time to stop and chat.”

  “Haul taut, sheet home, hoist away topgallants and jib!” Luke directed the crew, and men grabbed onto thick lines while others leapt into the shrouds and scrambled above.

  Noah watched them clamber with the confidence of monkeys up into the yards. His palms began to sweat, though his feet remained firmly planted on deck. Yes, he knew about fear. He knew about fear very well.

  Shaking it off, he raised his spyglass again, trying to determine the frigate’s intentions while keeping his mind off Miss Denton beside him and the way her curves filled out her gown. She’d always been a bit plump, while he decidedly preferred ladies of a more slender figure. Why then, did he find his gaze drawn toward her?

  “I hear they take no care for a sailor’s nationality or whether they ever served in the British navy,” she announced with conviction.

  “Pure rubbish, Miss Denton.” With glass still pressed to his eye, he kept his gaze locked on the frigate. Sailors scampered across her deck and yards, hauling all sails to the wind. Giving chase. Alarm rose within him.

  “Have you taken sides with our enemies, Captain?” Accusation stung in her voice.

  Sails thundered above him in an ominous boom.

  He faced her, making no attempt to hide his frustration. “I take no side, Miss Denton.”

  Her nose pinked and her eyes narrowed. “It is common knowledge that the British stop and board our ships and impress our sailors without cause. I would think you, of all people, would be angry at such an affront.”