Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  The fishy-smelling man tossed his cards down and let out a belch. “That’s it for me, gentlemen.”

  “And for me, as well.” Luke snapped the hair from his face and laid his cards out faceup on the table. Gauging the men for their reactions, he reached inside his coat and fingered his pistol just in case.

  Mr. Crenshaw emitted a foul word and scratched his head as if he couldn’t fathom how Luke had won. He tossed down his cards. Mr. Fairfax, however, eyed Luke suspiciously. He clung to his hand as if the cards were all he had left in the world. His biting gaze shifted from Luke’s cards to his own then across the other players.

  Slipping his hand inside his coat, Luke gripped the handle of his pistol. How many men had accused him of cheating? An insult he could never allow to pass without calling for satisfaction. Which was precisely what had happened with Lieutenant Tripp. Normally, Luke would not mind an altercation. It kept his skill with the sword sharp while discouraging others from challenging him. Yet, tonight he found he had no desire to fight.

  Finally, Mr. Fairfax tossed down his cards and mopped his sweaty brow. “Your infernal luck, Heaton.”

  Luck. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen.” Releasing his pistol, he reached to gather his winnings when he spotted Lieutenant Tripp parting the crowd, heading his way.

  The annoying man halted before the table. “Heaton,” he snorted. “Just where I expected to find you.”

  “But not where I expected to find you,” Luke retorted with a grin.

  Tripp straightened his coat and wobbled in place. “I heard of your success with my ship.”

  “Did you, now?” Luke leaned back in his chair. The man was drunk. It would be no fun taunting him in his condition.

  Luke’s three companions scooted their chairs back.

  “Except it’s my ship now, if you recall.”

  A sneer curled Lieutenant Tripp’s lips. “You’re nothing but a sot and a wastrel. One day of good fortune at sea cannot change that.”

  Luke attempted to shrug off the man’s words though they sank into his gut, landing atop the ones Mr. Crane had planted there earlier that evening. “Perhaps. But what is that to you?”

  “I’ll have my ship back.”

  “So you have said.” Luke sipped his rum. “You’re drunk, Lieutenant. Go home and sleep it off.”

  The crowd quieted as eyes shot their way. With the money he’d made, Luke could almost buy another ship and give Destiny back to this moron. If the man ever ceased being such a whining ninny, Luke might do just that.

  The lieutenant stumbled again and rubbed the scar on his left cheek. “You will pay, sir.”

  Luke grew tired of the repetitious threats. He lifted his rum toward the man in a mock salute. “Perhaps. Now if you don’t mind …” Luke waved his hand toward the door and slammed the rest of the rum to the back of his throat. Yet he had a feeling no amount of alcohol could make the peevish man disappear.

  Before Luke could set down his glass, Lieutenant Tripp booted the table over, sending the coins, lantern, and cards flinging through the air, clanging and crashing to the wooden floor. He raised a pistol and pointed it at Luke. Mr. Fairfax doused the lantern flame, while Mr. Crenshaw dropped to his knees, scrambling to retrieve the coins.

  The throng of excited onlookers backed away. The pianoforte stopped playing.

  Luke released a frustrated sigh, set his glass on the next table, and slowly stood. The man’s misty eyes wandered over him. The pistol shook in his hands.

  Luke spread out his arms. “Well, shoot me then and get it over with.” Certainly a deserving way for him to die. He’d given Mrs. Barnes enough money to last for years, at least until John was old enough to provide for himself. In fact, both she and John might be better off without Luke. Though his heart cramped at the pain the boy would endure at losing his only brother.

  Lieutenant Tripp’s eyelid began to twitch. He licked his lips. The pistol swung like a pendulum across Luke’s chest. Time passed in slow motion. Only the sound of shifting boots, the hiss of lanterns, and the occasional grunt broke through the tense silence. Finally, someone yelled, “Shoot him” from the back of the mob. Others begged Tripp to put the weapon away.

  A drop of sweat slid down Lieutenant Tripp’s cheek as the pistol teetered in his hand. If Luke didn’t stop this madness, the man might shoot an innocent bystander. Growing tired of waiting, Luke charged him, grabbed the gun, and tried to pry it from his fingers. Tripp struggled. He clenched his teeth, growling like a rabid bear. People scattered.

  Swinging back his fist, Luke struck the man across the jaw. He let go of the weapon and tumbled backward into the crowd. Uncocking the gun, Luke released a deep breath as the mob broke into a chorus of cheers and chuckles. A man emerged from among them and helped the groaning and red-faced Lieutenant Tripp to his feet.

  Luke blinked. Mr. Crane? Luke had left him only an hour ago at the Channings’.

  “Did Miss Channing toss you out?” Luke chuckled.

  Crane led Tripp to a nearby chair then faced Luke. “Don’t be daft. I came here to confirm my suspicions of you.”

  The pianoforte began thrumming again as the throng dispersed back to their depraved revelries.

  “Indeed.” Luke cocked his head, wondering which suspicions he meant, when Clara sidled up beside him and caressed his arm. “Are you all right, Luke?”

  “Yes, thanks, love.” He nudged her back.

  “Miss Channing thinks you are a man of honor, sir.” Mr. Crane’s buzz-like voice drew Luke’s gaze back to him. “A rather distorted view, I’d say, biased by the fortune you made for her. For I see that the rumors about you are true. You are a drunk.” He eyed the cards lying haphazardly across the sticky floor. “A gambler, and a bully who would strike one of the great officers who protects our good nation.”

  The hypocrite! Fury seared through Luke, pooling in his fist still gripping the pistol, while his other hand wandered dangerously close to the hilt of his cutlass. Could he not escape this man? Only the fact that he was a friend of Miss Channing’s kept Luke from drawing his sword.

  “Rest assured, sir,” the mongrel continued, “Miss Channing will hear of your behavior tonight”—his eyes wandered over Clara standing off to the side—“and I’m sure she will be as horrified as I am to discover just what type of man she has allied herself with.”

  Setting the pistol down atop a table lest he shoot the bird-witted clod, Luke forced a grin to his lips. “I have no doubt, sir.” Then barreling through the throng, he blasted out the front door, only then realizing he’d forgotten his winnings. No matter. He’d have a hard time getting them from Mr. Crenshaw, anyway. Besides, what was a few dollars when he had thousands? A wall of cool night air slapped him, instantly sobering him, and making him thankful he hadn’t challenged Mr. Crane. He’d dueled men with far less provocation.

  But Miss Channing wouldn’t approve.

  And he found himself more than anything never wanting to displease her.

  Yet this night had established one fact. Luke was not worthy of a treasure like Cassandra. If he continued to shower her with his attentions in the hope of gaining her affection, it would only end up causing her pain. For everything he touched became tainted—sullied. No, for Cassandra’s own good, Luke must keep their relationship strictly business. And despite the torrent of feelings she invoked within him, he must do his best to stay away from her.

  Milton Crane led the wobbling lieutenant to a table in the far corner, away from the crowd that was still chattering about the altercation.

  “That capricious blackguard,” the lieutenant cursed as Crane eased him into a chair and asked him if he’d like a drink.

  The lieutenant rubbed his forehead. “No, I believe I’ve had quite enough.”

  “Milton Crane.” Crane held out his hand and took a seat beside the lieutenant.

  “Lieutenant Abner Tripp.” The man took his hand. “Thank you for your help, sir.”

  Even in his besotted state, ther
e was no mistaking the pure hatred that burned in the lieutenant’s eyes toward Heaton. Such passionate hatred must have its reward. And Crane knew just the thing.

  “That was Mr. Heaton who assaulted you, was it not?”

  Lieutenant Tripp moaned. “Yes. I should have shot him when I had the chance.” He looked up, his gaze drifting back and forth over Crane. “Do you have the misfortune of being acquainted with the villain?”

  “Only recently, sir. Though I am quite aware of his reputation.”

  “Then you’ve no doubt heard that he stole my ship in a game of cards, took all my money as well, and then had the audacity to call me out to a duel.” He rubbed the long purple scar on his cheek.

  Crane grinned. This was getting better and better. “I had not heard, sir. But I assure you, I find the man equally repugnant.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes seemed to sober for a moment as he stared at Crane as if he too, could foresee an alliance between them.

  Crane gestured with his head toward Mr. Keene and Mr. Sanders who were sitting at the next table. “You see those men. They are part of his crew.”

  The lieutenant shrugged. “So?”

  “So, if they are like Heaton, they have no loyalty to him or anyone else.”

  Lieutenant Tripp slouched in his chair and shook his head.

  “Mr. Heaton stands in the way of something very important to me.” Visions of the scoundrel kissing Miss Channing on the cheek in the foyer of her home flashed through his mind as well as the dozens of amorous glances they had shared at dinner. The foolish girl was besotted with him. And he must put a stop to their growing affection before Miss Channing was hurt.

  “And I perceive,” Crane continued, “that you also seek revenge.”

  “You perceive correctly, sir.” Tripp rubbed his long sideburns. “But I don’t see what we can do about it.”

  “Ah, that’s where you are wrong, Lieutenant. If we put our minds together, I believe we can both get what we want.”

  “Which is?”

  “To destroy Luke Heaton.”

  “Are you quite sure?” Cassandra turned her back on Mr. Crane and faced the window of their parlor, not wanting him to see the pain that must surely be visible on her face.

  “Yes, I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, Miss Channing.” His gravelly voice assailed her from behind. “I know how you admire the man. Not to mention your business arrangement with him.”

  Yet she doubted Mr. Crane was truly sorry at all, for not a trace of regret tinged his voice. Cassandra gazed at her mother’s roses sparkling with morning dew in the front garden. “Why should I care if the man was entertaining a tavern wench?” She kept her voice disinterested, while a sick feeling clenched her gut and spiked through her heart at Mr. Crane’s description of the buxom woman draped over Luke Heaton’s lap last night.

  “And I’m afraid he was quite drunk and gambling as well. And he got into a bit of a scuffle with a military man. Slugged him across the jaw.”

  Cassandra spun around, suddenly indignant at the man’s jealous slurs. Why had she let him in the house again? She had woken in such high spirits. Everything in her life appeared to be going well. For once. Then why did this man’s accusations of Mr. Heaton, true or not, squash her joy like a bug beneath his buckled shoe?

  “I fail to see the purpose of telling me this, Mr. Crane. As long as Mr. Heaton is successful at privateering, I could care less what he does in his free time.” Without thinking, she lifted a hand to her cheek where Mr. Heaton’s lips had touched her skin.

  Mr. Crane must have noticed her sorrow for he gave a sympathetic smile. “I thought you should know the trustworthiness of the man with whom you have invested your wealth.”

  Trustworthiness. Cassandra sighed. That was the crux of the matter, was it not? Cassandra’s trust had been betrayed far too often and by far too many people. Never. Never would she toss her affections upon a man who, for all indications, would betray her, abandon her, and leave her all alone in the world.

  CHAPTER 17

  Cassandra entered the Brenin sitting room and dashed into Marianne’s outstretched arms. “I came as soon as I got your note. Any word?” She drew back and gazed into her friend’s red-rimmed eyes.

  Marianne lowered her chin and shook her head. “None so far.”

  Taking her hand, Cassandra led her to the sofa. “But you don’t know which privateer was captured?”

  Marianne sniffed and held a handkerchief to her nose. “No, only that it was a brig like Noah’s and that it had just set out to sea, as he had done.”

  “Many of the privateers are brigs.” Cassandra squeezed her hand, longing to bring the poor woman some comfort. “And there are hundreds of them out at sea.”

  Marianne played with the delicate lace on the edge ofher handkerchief. “I hate to think of him pressed into the navy again. Or worse, sent to one of those rotting prison hulks.” Her shoulders began to quiver.

  Slipping an arm over Marianne’s shoulders, Cassandra drew her close. “Surely God will take care of Noah.” Though she didn’t believe the words herself, she knew Marianne would find solace in her faith. A faith Cassandra had always envied and yet found so lacking within herself. Perhaps believing in a God who cared was just a fantasy, after all. The thought oddly weighed upon her heart with a deep sorrow.

  Marianne’s mother entered the room, young Jacob in her arms. “He’s asking for you, dear.”

  Swiping her tears away, Marianne took the baby and perched him on her lap. Laying her chin atop his head, she inhaled a deep breath as if the scent of her son would bring his father back.

  “Good day, Mrs. Denton.” Cassandra rose, but the elderly woman waved a hand for her to stay with Marianne.

  “Do not get up on my account.” She smiled and lowered herself with difficulty into one of the floral-printed chairs beside the hearth.

  Cassandra shook her head. Mrs. Denton suffered from far more serious illnesses than Cassandra’s mother, yet rarely did a complaint pass through her lips.

  Clank clank clank. The front door reverberated with the sound of the brass knocker. Marianne’s face paled, and her eyes shot to the foyer. A few seconds passed, and Mr. Sorens announced Reverend Drummond just as the man ambled into the room, fumbling with his hat.

  The butler cleared his throat and held out his hand. The reverend stared at him for a moment before handing him his hat. “Ah yes, good fellow. Thank you.” He faced Marianne again.

  She rose, hoisting Jacob into her arms. “Forgive me, Reverend, but I am quite distressed today. I was not aware you intended to visit.”

  He bowed toward all three ladies and greeted each one in turn. “My apologies, Mrs. Brenin, for barging in, but I just left Mr. Heaton.”

  “Mr. Heaton?” Marianne asked.

  Luke? Cassandra nearly leapt from her seat. Why did the mere mention of his name cause such a childish reaction? It had been nearly a week since she’d last seen him at her house for dinner. A week since he’d kissed her cheek and run off into the night.

  Run off into another woman’s arms.

  After Mr. Crane’s visit, a shroud of gloom had descended on Cassandra, even as she chastised herself for such preposterous feelings. What did it matter how Mr. Heaton conducted himself? He was on land and could do what he wanted. There was no understanding between them that went beyond business. Finally after a few days, she had been able to tuck her confusing emotions away. After which, her senses returned. She needed no man. And she had informed Mr. Crane of that fact in no uncertain terms as she had swept from the parlor.

  Had he hoped that after he disparaged Mr. Heaton’s character, she would run into his arms and swoon? “Bah!”

  All eyes shot to her, bringing her back to the present. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Forgive me.… You were saying?”

  “Yes,” Reverend Drummond continued. “I was saying that Mr. Heaton informed me of your situation, Mrs. Brenin. He is heading to the docks to see if he can uncover any inf
ormation that will be of help.” He took a step closer, his brown eyes brimming with concern. “And I thought I’d come by to see if I could offer you some comfort while you await the news.”

  “How kind of you, Reverend,” Marianne’s mother said.

  Marianne smiled and sat back down. Jacob waved his hands in the air and grabbed his mother’s handkerchief.

  “What has Luke to do with this?” Cassandra stood and began to pace.

  Marianne collected her son’s flailing arms in her hand. “He came by as soon as he heard the news and offered to help.”

  “Do sit down, Reverend.” Marianne’s mother gestured toward a chair then asked Mr. Sorens, who had remained at the parlor entrance, to instruct Mrs. Rebbs to serve tea.

  Marianne pressed a hand over her belly. “I don’t believe I can drink anything right now, Mother.”

  “You must try, dearest. It will settle your stomach.” Her mother folded shriveled hands in her lap and leaned back in her chair, a picture of tranquility, though the nervous blinking of her eyes betrayed her.

  “What if it’s Noah?” Marianne’s voice broke into a sob. “What if he’s been captured?”

  As Cassandra passed by the sofa, Jacob reached for her. Gathering him in her arms, she extracted the handkerchief from his hands and handed it to Marianne.

  “Noah is a competent sailor,” Mr. Drummond offered, lowering himself into a chair.

  Marianne dabbed at her eyes as another knock rapped through the foyer. The door squeaked open and the thud of heavy boots echoed over the wooden floor. Cassandra’s heart froze. She knew the sound of those boots anywhere.

  Mr. Heaton’s masculine frame filled the doorway. His eyes widened at the sight of her before he greeted Mr. Drummond, Marianne, and her mother.

  “Miss Channing,” he said, tossing his cocked hat onto a table. “A pleasure as always.” Then marching across the room, he planted a kiss on Marianne’s cheek.