Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  Darlene darted across the path in front of them, Dexter on her heels, and leapt into one of the bushes. “I found you!”

  With an ear-piercing scream, Hannah leapt out from among the branches, twigs and lace flying through the air. Darlene barreled into her, and the two girls toppled to the ground in a gush of giggles as Dexter stood over them and barked.

  Mr. Crane’s face scrunched. “Shouldn’t the children be attending their studies?”

  Cassandra smiled. What an excellent reason to rid herself of this man’s company. “Of course, Mr. Crane. I quite agree. Since we were forced to let the nanny go, I’m afraid many of her duties have fallen to me.” Ignoring the look of alarm on his face, she continued, “If you’ll excuse me, I should get the girls cleaned up and ready for their lessons with Mrs. Northrop.” She faced the gardener. “Mr. Dayle, would you please see Mr. Crane to the door?” Then with barely a glance in Mr. Crane’s direction, Cassandra started toward her sisters, who were still tumbling on the grass.

  “Oh, no, no, no, my dear.” Her mother’s shrill voice halted her. The older woman dashed into the yard, gathered the children up like a hen escaping a storm, and ushered them inside the house, shouting, “I’ll attend to the girls. Carry on, carry on.” Dexter followed after them but a closed door barred his passage. The poor sheepdog slumped to the ground and laid his head onto his front paws.

  With a huff and a smile so stiff she felt her face would crack, Cassandra turned back toward Mr. Crane.

  He cleared his throat. “Very good. Shall we sit?” He gestured toward an iron bench beneath a maple tree.

  Reluctantly, Cassandra sat. The cold bars leeched the warmth from her body. Or was it being so close to Mr. Crane—who took the seat beside her—that caused her to shiver? He wasn’t such an unpleasant fellow. In fact, he’d always been quite courteous to her. But something in his eyes, in his subtle gestures, pricked at her distrust.

  Or maybe she didn’t trust anyone anymore.

  “Miss Channing.” He rubbed at his fingers as if he’d just noticed the ink stains upon them. “Your mother … I mean to say, I have asked …” His face reddened and he chuckled. “Do forgive me, Miss Channing. I’m usually not this inarticulate.”

  Oh, bother. He was going to ask if he could court her! “Do not vex yourself, Mr. Crane. Perhaps we can talk some other time.” Cassandra stood, her gaze darting about the yard, seeking escape. He grabbed her wrist and stood. “Please, Miss Channing, don’t leave. What I am trying to say is, what I’m making a terrible mess of saying is, I have asked your mother’s permission to court you and she has said yes.”

  The sharp smell of ink bit her nose. Cassandra tugged from his grasp and took a step back. Expectation and vulnerability filled his eyes—so different from the confidence and hint of sorrow burning in Mr. Heaton’s eyes the night before. “Mr. Crane. I am deeply flattered. But my mother has misspoken. I am in no position to entertain suitors at this time. With my father dead and my brothers missing, surely you can see that I have more pressing matters to contend with.”

  He wrung his hands once again. “If that is all that concerns you, Miss Channing, I have your solution. I’d be honored if you’d allow me to assist you with your pressing matters. It is too much for a lady to handle alone.”

  Cassandra stiffened her jaw. “A lady can handle whatever a man can as long as she is given equal opportunity, sir.”

  He started to chuckle, but when his eyes locked with hers, his laughter withered on his lips.

  Mrs. Northrop’s head popped out from around the corner then disappeared. Mr. Dayle, still working in the garden, cleared his throat.

  Cassandra studied Mr. Crane. For one fleeting moment she considered asking him to invest her money in a privateer. But that idea dissipated when she realized she’d be forced to not only trust him, but she’d be forever bound to him if he agreed. “I am grateful for your concern, sir, but I cannot allow such kindness when I have nothing to offer in return.”

  “Oh, but you do, my dear.” Tugging on his lacy cravat, he lifted pleading brown eyes to hers.

  Cassandra nearly shriveled at the look of desire and desperation within them.

  He frowned. “At least give me a reason to continue casting my hope in your direction.”

  “I can give you no such reason, sir. I can only say that my future is yet unknown.”

  He lowered his chin. “That alone gives me hope.”

  Truly? Cassandra sighed. Would nothing put the man off?

  “I shall bid you adieu, then.” Taking her hand in his, he placed a gentle kiss upon it, bowed, then headed toward the house. Mr. Dayle leapt to escort him to the door, giving her a sympathetic look in passing.

  Shielding her eyes, Cassandra gazed up at the sun halfway to its zenith. A dark cloud that seemed to come out of nowhere drifted over it, swallowing its bright light and sending a shadow over her face and a shiver down her back. An evil foreboding? For once upon a time, Cassandra’s future had appeared bright and glorious, but now it seemed nothing but dark and dismal.

  It was this war. This horrendous war. And the bedeviled British who had stolen her father, her brothers, her future, and who now wanted her country. But she could not let them. She must invest in a privateer. It was the only way to ensure her family’s future and aid in defeating the tyrants who were intent on stealing her freedom.

  Making her way to the solarium at the north side of the house, she opened the door to a burst of warm, humid air, perfumed with gardenias. Her precious gardenias. Oh, how she loved gardening—a hobby that she’d often neglected this past year. Though even without daily care, the plants seemed to thrive. Inhaling their sweet fragrance, she fingered the delicate white petals as she made her rounds, examining each bush, before sitting on the wooden chair at the far end. Reaching underneath a workbench, she pulled out a small chest. Inside was a pipe.

  Her father’s pipe.

  Holding it to her nose, she drew in a deep breath of the sweet, smoky scent that always reminded her of Papa. She closed her eyes and pictured him sitting in his leather chair in the library, smoking his pipe while he read one of his two favorite books—John Moore’s The Practical Navigator or the Bible.

  “Oh Papa, I need you.”

  She could see him glance up from his book and smile at her as he took the pipe from his mouth. “Ah, my little Cassie cherub. Come see your papa.” Dashing to him, she would leap into his outstretched arms and crawl into his lap. During those precious moments snuggled within his warm, strong arms, she had felt safe and loved.

  Like nothing could ever go wrong.

  “Papa.” Tears slid down her face, trickling onto the handle of the pipe. “Why did you leave me? I don’t know what to do.”

  No answer came. Just the chirp of birds outside the solarium and the distant sound of her sisters’ laughing. Ah, to be young again—too young to be burdened with cares, too young to be forced into a marriage she didn’t want. Cassandra dropped her head in her hands. She could not put her mother or Mr. Crane off for long.

  The lingering memory of her father disappeared, leaving Cassandra all alone.

  Another man’s face filled her vision. A man with hair as dark as the night and beguiling blue eyes.

  And she knew she had no other choice.

  CHAPTER 6

  Luke waded through the muddy bilge in the hold of the Agitation. After hours trying to repair the rent in the hull, he should have grown accustomed to the stench, but it still stung his nose and filled his lungs until it seemed to seep from his skin. Setting down his hammer, he shook the sweat from his hair and scanned the chaotic rubble he called his ship. Even if he could afford building materials, without a crew to assist him, it would take him months to get her in sailing shape. Who was he trying to fool? He snorted. Perhaps his time would be better spent investing his last two silver dollars in a game of Piquet.

  As if in response, the ship creaked beneath an incoming wave, and a beam fell from the deck head into the sq
ualid muck with a splash. Luke stared at it, benumbed, wondering if he should bother to pick it up. He needed a drink. Grabbing the lantern, he headed for the ladder when a voice calling his name floated down the rungs as if heaven itself were summoning him home.

  Which was not possible. If his time on earth was at an end, it wouldn’t be heaven’s voice he heard.

  “Hello! Mr. Heaton.” The angelic call trilled again as a slight footstep sounded above.

  Slogging toward the hatch, Luke extracted himself from the mire and vaulted up the ladder, finally emerging from the companionway into a burst of sunlight and an icy breeze that caused him to both squint and shiver.

  Setting down the lantern, he stared at the elegantly attired figure before him, delight overcoming his confusion when Miss Channing formed in his vision. The fringed parasol she held above her cast a circle of shade over her saffron gown. An emerald sash glimmered from high about her waist while a woolen shawl crowned her shoulders. A breeze sent her auburn curls dancing about her neck as she stood stiff like an unyielding paragon of Baltimore society, casting her gaze about the wreckage as if afraid to be sullied by her surroundings.

  “Oh my.” She turned her face away from him and took a step back.

  He glanced down at his bare chest and smiled at her reaction. Then his eyes landed on the ship’s bulwark undulating beside the dock, and he wondered how she’d managed to jump onto the deck without tripping on the flurry of petticoats peeking at him from beneath her gown. Nevertheless, he would not the curse the fortune that gave him another chance to speak with this enchanting lady.

  “Welcome to the Agitation, Miss Channing,” He gave a mock bow. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “If you’ll don a shirt, I shall be happy to tell you.” The pomposity in her voice deflated his hope that she made a purely social call.

  “I am working, and it is hot belowdecks. If you’ll state your business, I’ll happily relieve you of my unclad presence.” He cringed at his curt tone, yet she deserved it. Standing there with her pertinent chin in the air and her shoulders thrown back as if she did him a service by merely speaking to him.

  Not to mention that he still felt the sting of her blunt dismissal the night before.

  Rum beckoned to him from the capstan. Licking his lips, Luke brushed past her, noting the hesitation, perhaps fear, flickering on her face. Yet she held her ground. Grabbing the bottle, he took a swig and turned to face her. The pungent liquid did nothing to dull the emotions storming through him.

  A ship’s bell rang, and the scent of roasted pig floated to his nose from one of the taverns across from the docks. A growl churned in his belly, quickly silenced by another gulp of rum.

  Miss Channing cocked her head. A breeze fluttered the fringe on her parasol. “Are you always heavy into your cups this early in the day, sir?”

  Luke raked a hand through his hair and gazed at the sun high in the sky. “Aye, as often as the occasion permits.”

  She huffed her disdain, and an odd twinge of regret stung him. “Forgive my manners, Miss Channing. Would you care to sit?” He gestured toward a crate stacked beside the quarterdeck. “However, I fear all I have to offer you to drink is rum.”

  “No, thank you, sir. I do not intend to stay long.” She shifted her parasol and the sunlight angled over her face, setting her skin aglow like ivory pearls he’d once seen in the Caribbean.

  Luke swallowed. He knew she was a beauty, but standing here among the squalor of his ship, she stood out like a fresh flower in a dung heap. He lifted the bottle again to his lips, but thinking better of it, he set it down. “What may I do for you, Miss Channing?”

  Emerald green eyes met his. Her gaze dipped then sped away as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

  Luke shifted his wet boots over the planks and snapped the hair from his face. Part of him wanted to toss her from his ship for her insolent attitude. Another part of him didn’t want her to ever leave.

  A pelican landed on the wheel on the quarterdeck. Letting out a squawk, the bird turned his head and gazed at them with one black eye.

  Miss Channing smiled. “Your captain, I presume?”

  Luke chuckled. “I’d hire him on the spot if he could get this tub out to sea.”

  The deck tilted and she stumbled. Leaping for her, Luke grabbed her elbow.

  “Thank you.” She tugged from his grip and shifted her gaze to the stern of the ship, then over the bay where the sunlight set the rippling waters sparkling like diamonds, then at the taverns lining the docks—anywhere, it seemed, but on him.

  “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Heaton.”

  Luke raised his brows as a dozen improper thoughts filled his mind. “Indeed?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I shall be happy to oblige you.”

  She faced him now, her eyes widening. “I didn’t mean … Oh, bother.” Lowering her parasol, she snapped it shut, and Luke got the impression she might pummel him with it. No doubt he deserved the beating.

  Balancing over the teetering deck, she stepped back from him. “I meant for your services, Mr. Heaton.”

  He grinned again, enjoying the pinkish hue that climbed up her neck and onto her face.

  She tapped her right shoe over the planks. “You smell of rum and rot.”

  “And you smell of gardenias.” He eased toward her, drawing in a deep whiff, hoping her sweet scent would chase away the foul air from the hold.

  She leveled her parasol at him like a sword, her eyes flashing.

  Waves slapped against the hull. A carriage rumbled by on the cobblestone street.

  “Are you calling me out, miss?” Luke could barely restrain his laughter. “Parasols at dawn?”

  Her eyes narrowed. With a swish of her skirts, she swerved about and headed toward the wharf.

  Cursing himself for behaving the cad, Luke started toward her. To apologize, to shower her with flattery, to do anything to keep her from leaving.

  She halted and faced him. With a wiggle of her pert little nose, she glanced over the deck. “This is the worst ship I’ve ever seen.”

  “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “No, Mr. Heaton, I came here to hire you as a privateer.”

  Cassandra watched the sardonic gleam in Mr. Heaton’s eyes disappear beneath a wave of shock. He ran a hand through the slick black hair hanging to his shoulders and chuckled.

  He chuckled.

  “I fail to see the humor, Mr. Heaton.” She also wished she failed to see his tanned bare chest, gleaming in the sunlight. Though she did her best to avert her eyes, they kept wandering back to his well-shaped biceps, thick chest, and rippled stomach that hinted at his strength beneath. Warmth sped through her as she remembered the ease with which he’d dispatched her assailants the night before.

  “My apologies, Miss Channing. I seem to recall how ardently you dismissed my offer last night.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Well, they must have grown quite dire indeed for you to come crawling to the likes of me.”

  “I never crawl, Mr. Heaton, and my circumstances are none of your affair. Are you or are you not interested in a partnership with me?”

  A smile formed on his lips—a disarming smile that no doubt had melted a thousand female hearts. “I am honored that you would ask.”

  “Save your honor, Mr. Heaton, I had nowhere else to turn.”

  He held up a hand. “No need to shower me with flattery, miss.” His blue eyes gleamed mischief. “But what of your brothers? Have they sent their sister to do a man’s work?”

  Cassandra ground her teeth together. “I do not need my brothers, nor do I need a man to engage in a business deal any flubberhead could handle.”

  One side of his mouth curved upward, yet a glimmer of admiration passed through his eyes. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “As I can see that I’m wasting my time.” Grabbing her skirts, she started for the railing.

  He clutched her arm. “I agr
ee to your proposal.”

  Relief sped through her, easing the tight knot between her shoulders. Facing him, she stepped back, putting distance between them. “Very good. I have made arrangements to meet with Mr. Brenin tonight to draw up the necessary papers.”

  “Lud, such confidence! Were you so sure I would say yes?” He scratched the stubble on his chin and stepped toward her.

  She poked him with the tip of her parasol. The man had a way of disregarding propriety’s distance, causing her stomach to twitch. “Since you already extended the same offer to me last night, yes, I was. Although I must say, I was unsure whether to accept it.”

  Even now she wasn’t sure she had complete control of her wits.

  “What, pray tell, convinced you to accept? My hospitality?” He gripped the bulwark. A chip of rotted wood loosened and fell to the water with a splash. He shrugged. “No doubt it was my fine, seaworthy ship.”

  Cassandra raised a hand to her mouth to cover her smile even while her insides churned with apprehension. What was she doing? Not only was this man untrustworthy, but this ship would be better off at the bottom of the sea. Yet, hadn’t Noah just told her he’d inspected it recently and, aside from some necessary repairs, found it sound?

  “Your silence tells all, Miss Channing,” he said. “It seems life has cast a cloud of desperation on us both.”

  “Though I doubt for the same reasons, Mr. Heaton.”

  His dark, imperious gaze swept over her, making her legs turn to porridge. Confusion spun in her mind. Was she doing the right thing? Should she risk her family’s survival on this man?

  But what choice did she have?

  Yet beyond the roguish facade, a spark of sincerity lingered in his eyes.

  “Do you think you can put aside your usual nighttime activities to meet at Mr. Brenin’s house tonight? We can sign the papers and I’ll see to your payment then.”