The ship bucked and he placed a hand atop hers, “Nothin’ to be feared about, miss. This ship is the sturdiest craft as ever I sailed.”
“But ships like these do sink, do they not?”
“Aye, from time t’ time.” He doffed his hat and scratched his thick head of charcoal-black hair.
A wonderful idea planted itself in her mind. This man must know a great deal about ships—especially this particular one. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Mr. Weller. “I’ll brave the foredeck if you’ll explain just how sound this ship really is.”
He extended his arm. “Ye’ve got a bargain, miss.”
♦♦♦
Noah sprang onto the deck to the sound of feminine laughter. His eyes soon discovered the source. At the bow of the ship stood Miss Denton and Mr. Weller, of all people. Her, gripping the railing. Him, steadying her with a hand on her back. They held their heads together as if they were old friends.
An uncomfortable feeling skittered across Noah’s back. What would Miss Denton and Mr. Weller find in common to discuss so intimately? Why, Mr. Weller rarely spoke to anyone since Noah rescued him from St. Kitts and gave him a job aboard the Fortune.
Forcing down his annoyance, Noah took the ladder to his position on the quarterdeck. After greeting Mr. Pike, who was positioned at the helm, he stood at the stanchions with hands clasped behind his back. He attempted to divert his gaze to the sea, but his traitorous eyes made their way back to Miss Denton and Mr. Weller. Where most women would cringe at the man’s deformities, she treated him as if he were the Earl of Buckley dropping over for tea.
Wasn’t it enough he’d been forced to witness her kindness toward Agnes? Now this? Why, sooner or later he might have to admit he admired the lady. And that would not aid his plans in the least. Not in the least.
♦♦♦
Marianne smiled at her new friend. No longer noticing the rippled skin on the left side of his face or his missing fingers. “So there’s nothing that can penetrate the ship’s hull save a massive rock or a cannon shot?”
“That be correct, miss. Unless”—he winked—“you were to take an ax to it, I suppose.”
Which she would never do. The last thing she wanted was to cause the ship to sink. “And what of these ropes?” Releasing her death grip on the railing, Marianne clung to one of the massive lines that stretched taut up to a sail above. But she already knew the answer. Nearly as thick as her wrist and covered with tar, it would take hours to slice through with a knife.
Mr. Weller grinned. A single gold tooth twinkled in the setting sun. “Nay, these lines are fast and hard. Nothin’ can break them ’sides a heavy ax or grape shot. Besides, ye’d have to sever more than one o’ them to do any damage.”
The ship pitched and with it, Marianne’s heart. She clutched the railing with both hands again and tried not to look down at the foamy water sliced by the bow of the ship. Without access to the captain’s cabin, she must find another way to disable the vessel.
She gazed upward. “And the sails?”
“Sturdy as steel cloth. Nothing but fire or the blast from a ship’s gun could penetrate them.”
Marianne bit her lip. Neither would suffice without endangering the crew, and she couldn’t do that.
“You are a kind lady, miss.” Mr. Weller smiled and ran a thumb down the scar on his face. “Most women avoid speakin’ t’ me.” He shrugged and stared at the churning water at the bow. “I suppose my appearance scares ’em.”
Marianne’s heart shrank. Though she had no disfigurement, how often had she been slighted in favor of more beautiful ladies? She raised a haughty chin. “Then, I dare say, they are missing out on knowing a very knowledgeable, courteous, and chivalrous gentleman.”
“Gentleman?” He guffawed. “Ain’t never been considered to be such.”
She smiled at his easy manner, then grew serious. “May I be so bold as to ask what happened to you?”
He tugged his scarf up as if suddenly self-conscious of his scar. A sail above them thundered in an ominous snap. “I was a gunner’s mate onboard the British warship, the Hibernia, of one hundred and ten guns”—he took a deep breath—“an’ durin’ a battle wit’ a French frigate, our gun exploded. I lost three o’ me fingers and a scrap of hot lead struck me face.”
Marianne’s stomach grew queasy. “How horrible.”
“Three other sailors lost their lives, includin’ a young powder boy who was no more ’an thirteen.”
“Thirteen.” Marianne’s head began to spin. She could not imagine the horrors of enduring a battle at sea, let alone such a tragedy. The glaze of painful memories clouded Mr. Weller’s eyes and she longed to take his pain away, to say how sorry she was, but words failed her.
“Aye. They say the gun deck is the most dangerous place to be durin’ battle.”
The ship rose, then plunged over a swell. Seawater misted over her. Normally, she would find it refreshing from the heat, but to her, it seemed like spit from the mouth of a monster.
Mr. Weller’s hand pressed against her back to steady her. Though she rarely allowed any man such liberties, she appreciated his strong support and felt no threat from his touch.
“So you see, there’s naught to be ’fraid of. Unless we end up in a battle with a warship.” He chuckled. “Unlikely since we are simple merchantmen.”
“Then why does the captain arm the ship?” Marianne gestured behind her toward the three cannons that lined the top deck on each side and the two that perched off the stern.
“Just for defense, miss, I assure ye.”
Marianne released a ragged sigh. It sounded as if the only way to prevent Noah from reaching England would be an enemy attack. And even if she could arrange that, it wouldn’t bode well for any of them. Her hope dwindling, she gazed out at sea, squinting at the setting sun. Perspiration slid down her back. Out there, beyond the sun, was her precious country, her precious city, her precious home. And every swell they traversed meant they were that much farther away. Mother, I’m trying to come home. Fear tightened her chest. Would Lizzie be able to care for Mama without Marianne? Who would do the cooking, the mending? Who would administer Mama’s medicines? She faced Mr. Weller and offered a conciliatory half-smile.
“Indeed, Mr. Weller, it does sound as though the ship is indestructible.”
“Aye, as I’ve told you. Unless we come under attack or a squall disables the rudder, ain’t nothing will stop us from reaching our destination.”
“The rudder? How would I…I mean how could that happen?”
He leaned on the railing. The sails above cast half of his face in shadows while the sun cast a golden glint on the other half. His brown eyes so full of life found hers. With a strong jaw and cheekbones, he could be considered a handsome man, if one could ignore his scars. Which she found increasingly easy to do. And he was young. She guessed he couldn’t be older than thirty years.
“A shot to the rudder would do it.” He smiled. “Or running aground during a storm, or by the strain o’ a storm on the wheel. Or I suppose someone could chop through the tiller ropes, but I don’t see why anyone aboard would do that.”
“Why not?” Marianne dared not hope.
“That would leave us unable to steer, save by the sails, and that would be difficult.” He glanced above. “O’ course that can be repaired right quick.”
She bit her lip. “Then it seems as though we are destined for England.”
“The captain’s a driven man when he’s got a cargo full of goods. No, I expect the only thing that would turn ’im around is if he lost his cargo somehow and had nothin’ to sell.”
Lost his cargo.
Marianne’s heart leapt. She smiled. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that? What reason would Noah have to continue to England if he had no goods to sell?
If his precious cargo met with some unforeseen disaster?
Chapter 8
Marianne ran the back of her sleeve over her moist forehead and stared at the soup
bubbling atop the iron stove. She wanted to assist Agnes—still taken to her bed—by preparing the evening meal. But in light of the strange odor wafting up from the gurgling slop in the copper kettle, she was beginning to regret that decision. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t cooked before. After her mother dismissed most of the servants, Marianne had taken up the duty of preparing the meals. But she’d done so in a well-equipped kitchen, not in a dark, cramped ship’s galley with only a smidgen of spices and foods to use in the preparation of her meal.
Ignoring the sweat streaming down her back, she grabbed a cloth and opened the oven door where several whole chickens roasted on spits over the fire. Hot air blasted over her, carrying with it a juicy, spicy fragrance that made her mouth water. At least the chicken would taste good. She silently thanked God that she hadn’t been forced to slaughter the poor birds herself. Mr. Weller had gladly assigned that duty to one of the sailors.
Closing the oven door, Marianne took a step back, if only to remove herself from the heat for a second, and bumped into the preparation table. How did Agnes, a much larger woman than Marianne, work in such tight quarters?
She sensed, rather than heard someone watching her and looked up. Mr. Heaton leaned against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. He smiled. “Smells delicious.”
“Thank you, Mr. Heaton.” Marianne returned his smile, ignoring the slight quiver of unease at his presence. “I am hoping the taste will agree with the smell.” She studied the tall, muscular man. His hair, as dark as a starless night, was so at odds with his clear blue eyes. Eyes that took her in as if she were some strange apparition.
“Can I help you?” she asked. The soothing smell of baked dough swirled about her nose and she jumped. “Oh no, my biscuits!” Using the cloth still in her hand, she removed the oven tray and turning, dumped the browned biscuits into a large basket. At least she hadn’t managed to burn this set. She dropped the tray to the table and began plopping dough onto it for the next batch.
“Is there something you want, Mr. Heaton? I am quite busy at the moment.” Though he had given her no cause for alarm and had always been cordial, his reputation among the ladies in Baltimore as a libertine and a rogue made her stomach clench in his presence—especially since she found herself alone with him.
“Just surprised to find you here, miss.” His deep voice held no malice. “Noah led me to believe you hadn’t done a day’s work in your life.”
Marianne sighed. That had been true of her once—a lifetime ago, before her father died. “Noah knows very little about me.”
He stepped forward and reached to pluck one of the biscuits from the basket. Without thinking, Marianne slapped his wrist, her anger overcoming her reason, for she didn’t know whether Mr. Heaton was a man one could slap—even playfully—without repercussions. To add to her discomfiture, the distinct smell of rum filled the air between them. She knew the smell. Knew it quite well, along with the memories it invoked of her father.
Relief came, however, when Mr. Heaton chuckled, his mirth reaching his blue eyes with a twinkle. “Noah knows little about you? I would say that to be true of you, as well, regarding him.”
“I’ve known Noah since I was five and he was six. Can you attest to the same?”
“No, but these past five years I’ve lived in these quarters with him for months at a time. Can you attest to the same?”
Marianne could see why women’s hearts fluttered at his rakish grin that was both sensuous and charming.
“I cannot imagine how you have suffered his company that long.” She snorted.
He chuckled and rubbed the scar on his right ear. “Or he mine.”
She cocked her head. Though appearing the rake in every way, she sensed something deeper within him—a kindness, a genuineness—that set her at ease. “Do you enjoy life at sea, Mr. Heaton?”
“I do. There’s freedom here on these waves, miss. And adventure. You never know what will happen. Take you, for instance. Who would have guessed you’d be sailing with us on the crossing.”
“Yes, I quite agree with you on that.” Marianne plucked a ladle from its hook and stirred the fish soup. “So you crave freedom and adventure. What else stirs your soul, Mr. Heaton?”
“Wealth.” His answer came too quickly. Too resolutely.
Marianne huffed her disappointment. “Indeed? What of charity, kindness, loyalty, honor? Have they no place in your life?”
He shrugged. “They do not fill empty bellies.”
“And your belly is all that concerns you?” She looked his way, wondering if her blunt comment would prick his ire. But he only returned a grin.
“At the moment, yes.” He eyed the biscuits. “I am quite hungry.”
“Then you have come to the right place.” Marianne plucked one and handed it to him.
He took it and lifted his brows. “Thank you, miss. I won’t tell a soul.”
“Do you have family in Baltimore, Mr. Heaton?” she asked.
He swallowed the bite of biscuit in his mouth. The usual cocky expression faded from his face. “My parents are dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Marianne stepped toward him, the soup dripping from the ladle onto the floor. She knew well the pain of losing a parent.
He lifted his gaze, shifting his eyes between hers—eyes filled with pain and the slight glaze of alcohol, eyes that instantly hardened. “No need. It was a long time ago.”
“But that kind of pain can last for years.”
He jerked his hair behind him then lowered his chin.
Grabbing a cloth, Marianne knelt to clean up the spilled soup, chiding herself for prying into this man’s personal life.
“How is your wound?” he asked.
Rising, Marianne felt the bandage wrapped around her head. Aside from an occasional itch, she’d all but forgotten it was there. “It gives me no pain.”
He chuckled. “I heard it was Seafoam who lured you into your trap below.”
“My father always told me my love for animals would cause trouble for me.” She smiled then sorrow gripped her at the memory.
She cleared her throat and began spooning biscuit dough onto another tray.
“That cat is smart one,” he said. “I’ll warrant she knew exactly what she was doing.”
Marianne’s hand halted in mid-air. “What the devil do you mean, sir? I am now a prisoner aboard this ship. How could that be a smart thing to cause?”
Her outburst bore no effect on his insolent grin. “You are good for him.”
Lifting the tray, she opened the oven and shoved it inside, slamming the door with a clank. “For whom?”
He gave her a devilish smile.
“Noah?” She swung back to the stove to examine the soup. “Absurd. He hates me and I him.”
“I doubt that.”
“Oh, really? What of Priscilla?”
His eyebrows shot up. “That vain peacock? She’s nothing but an empty box wrapped in ribbons and lace.”
“So she is beautiful?” Marianne stirred the soup a little too vigorously. Why did she care?
“Very. But she is a bore, if you ask me.”
Marianne didn’t want to ask him. Didn’t want to hear any more about the silly woman.
“Supper will be ready in a few minutes, Mr. Heaton.”
“I’ll call Mr. Hobbs to gather the messmen, miss.” He plopped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, gave her a wink, and left.
♦♦♦
“Dinner is served.”
Noah glanced up from his desk to see Luke entering the room with Matthew scrambling in behind him, carrying a tray of steaming food.
“Have you heard of knocking?”
“Not when we bring such delicious fare.” Luke kicked the door shut as Matthew set the tray on top of Noah’s charts. The savory scent of chicken and the aroma of fresh biscuits filled Noah’s nose and he licked his lips. “I thought your wife was still indisposed.”
“Aye, that she is.” Matthew and Luke exchanged an odd g
lance.
“Then am I to assume that she prepared this food from her bed?” Noah stood, irritation grinding his nerves at whatever secret the two men shared.
Luke lifted his brows, a mischievous look on his face. “Miss Denton cooked the meal tonight.”
Noah allowed the words to needle through his mind, seeking a thread of reason. He dropped his gaze to the plateful of glazed brown chicken and two biscuits. Beside it, a spicy fish scent spiraled upward from a bowl of steaming soup. His mouth watered.
“Quite tasty if you ask me.” Matthew licked his lips.
“Miss Denton made this?” Noah eyed them both curiously.
Luke crossed his arms over his chest. “I saw her myself.”
Tearing a piece of chicken from the bone, Noah tossed it in his mouth. Tender, moist, and somewhat flavorful. “Astonishing.”
“Though not as good as your wife’s cooking, Matthew, this is certainly satisfying, especially since I thought I would go hungry tonight.” Noah bit into a biscuit, surprised when he found a buttery soft texture within the hard crust.
Seafoam nudged his arm and meowed.
“Even the cat knows good cookin’ when she sees it.” Matthew laughed.
Noah picked up Seafoam, scratched her head, then set her down on the deck. “Go below and find a rat to gnaw on. This meal is mine.”
“Not bad for a woman who never did an ounce of work her entire life.” Luke’s voice rang with sarcasm.
A vision of blistered hands invaded Noah’s thoughts. Who was Miss Denton? Certainly not the spoiled little chit who would go crying to her mama whenever a speck of dirt appeared on her dress. Certainly not the princess who would call a servant over to pick up a handkerchief she had dropped. And then snub her nose at Noah when the maid instantly complied. Either this Miss Denton was not Miss Denton at all, but an impostor, or she deserved a chorus of cheers for such a convincing performance.
♦♦♦
Marianne shot up in bed, her heart pounding. Had she overslept? So exhausted after cooking for hours, she’d fallen onto her mattress in the hopes of getting a few hours’ sleep before putting her plan into motion. Dashing to the porthole, she searched for any hint of dawn, but the night still hung its dark curtain over the sea. A myriad stars winked at her as if prodding her onward. She must make her way down to the hold to discover a way to ruin Noah’s cargo. Even as the thought sparked her to action, guilt rapped on the door of her conscience. But she would not answer. She couldn’t. Her mother’s life depended on it. Besides, when she and Noah married, Noah would have all the wealth he needed, and he wouldn’t need to work so hard. She was actually doing him a favor.
Surrender the Sea Page 9