by Regan Walker
“Like yers, there were four sons. All were raised for the sea, though one does not sail now. Only the Raven had the fire to follow his father as a privateer, plundering the French with letters of marque from the Crown.”
“And the Americans? Did the captain and his crew sail against us?” She couldn’t help wondering if the arrogant English captain had preyed on her family’s ships—though to be fair, her brothers had gone after the English. As privateers, they’d captured or sunk more than a dozen ships before returning home to Baltimore two years ago. It was when she’d resumed sailing with them that her father, watching her in the rigging one day, had decided to send her to London.
“Not often. The Raven mostly went after the French, which always surprised me since Nick’s mother is French. But o’ course, he was raised in England.” The older man chuckled to himself, apparently finding humor in his statement.
So the captain and his father had, at least at some point, plundered the Americans. Well, what did she expect? He was English. “An interesting family.”
“That they be, lass.”
“Have you sailed with the captain long?”
“Since his first ship. And before that with his father.” The older seaman relit his pipe and puffed for a moment. “What brings ye to the Wind Raven, lass?”
“I was in London, where I’ve been living for the last year with my Aunt Cornelia, when my oldest brother sent for me. My father is ill, you see, and George wanted me home. I sought the first ship sailing to Baltimore that was acceptable to my aunt. Since she is a friend of Captain Powell’s mother, I was told to take this ship.”
“Fate sometimes has unusual ways,” he said in a low voice as he looked into the distance.
Tara wondered at his statement but decided not to ask. It was the kind of thing their housekeeper, Mrs. O’Flaherty, would say. Maggie was the closest thing Tara had to a mother since her own mother had died.
Finished with her water, and hearing the eight bells that announced it was noon, Tara decided to take a look at the galley. “Is this a good time to meet your cook?”
“As good as any, lass. The man’s a curmudgeon, though I ’spect ye can charm him.”
* * *
As ships’ galleys went, the Wind Raven’s was fairly average. It was not large, but Tara thought it sufficient in size to produce the simple meals served to the more than thirty officers and crew. A rack holding carving knives, kettles and pans was set into the bulkhead, the tools of the cook’s trade swaying with the motion of the ship.
Crates and barrels containing salted meat, flour and rice stood in a neat row nearby. Canvas bags holding a supply of coffee, dried peas and oatmeal leaned against them. Above her head, small squares of heavy glass were set into the weather deck, acting as miniature skylights providing dim light during the day. These were aided by the glow from the large black stove radiating orange light from the open firebox, and from a lantern hanging above. Tara could see quite clearly the stout middle-aged man laboring over a chopping block. His graying red hair was in disarray, sprinkled with the same flour that coated his hands, as he kneaded a large mound of dough.
Sitting on a small stool watching him with wide eyes was the captain’s cabin boy. Behind him Charlie Wilson, the gunner, leaned against a stack of crates in one corner with his arms crossed over his chest. Charlie was a seasoned member of the crew, his deeply tanned skin and sun-bleached brown hair a testimony to his life at sea.
“’Tis not my favorite of the stories Cook tells, that one about the banshee,” said Mr. Wilson, scratching his stubbled chin. “All that screeching as a herald of death would send me screaming over the rails. I like the one about the leanan sídhe. Tell us that one, McGinnes.”
“Oh, yes!” joined in Peter enthusiastically, his dimple in full display.
McGinnes looked up while still kneading the big lump of dough, his green eyes fixed on Tara as he began to speak, a faint hint of an Irish brogue in his voice. “The leanan sídhe be a tall one, fair-haired and beautiful, a fairy mistress of dreadful power.” Tara avoided the cook’s pointed gaze and smiled at Peter as she accepted the stool he offered and continued listening to the fascinating tale the cook was weaving for them.
Never taking his eyes off Tara, McGinnes spoke. “She often bestows a gift like the power to create art or music or she might give her protection and healing. In doing this, ye’d best be aware,” he said, passing a look of warning to the gunner and the cabin boy, “the leanan sídhe seeks the love of mortal men. If a man can refuse her, she will be his slave, but if he loves her, he will forever be hers.”
“Sounds wonderful,” said Peter with a wistful sigh.
“Nay, ’tis not so wonderful, lad,” he said, diverting his gaze to the boy. “The sídhe can be quite fierce if angered, and the price of her dark gifts is often sorrow and a broken heart. The more suffering she inflicts, the dearer she becomes to the one she desires. ’Tis said she will only meet her mortal lover in Tir-na-n-Og, the land of eternal youth. Sure an’ a man who would be hers must first pass through death.”
Silence hung in the small space as the seaman and the boy, held in rapt attention, appeared to contemplate the high price for love of an ethereal being.
The cook’s fingers resumed working through the dough and his sudden slap of the raw pastry sent up a cloud of flour dust, startling the two men out of their daydreaming.
Tara let out a sigh and rose, disrupting the silence. She thought it time she offered her greeting. “Mr. McGinnes, we’ve not been introduced. I am Tara McConnell.”
The cook gave her a skeptical look, his eyes falling to her breeches. “I’ve heard much about our passenger. Sure an’ not all of the crew welcome a woman aboard. Mr. Greene here tells me you’ll be offering your cookin’ skills to my galley.”
Tara cast Peter a sidelong glance, knowing the offer to help would not be well received by the ship’s cook who, she was certain, viewed the galley as his domain. “Oh, no, Mr. McGinnes. I would never presume to suggest I have skills such as yours, but since I’ve been limited to the deck for any help I can offer the crew, I’d be pleased to do what I can to assist you.” She smiled broadly. “Besides, the galley on my brothers’ ships is usually the best place to find not just food, but good conversation.”
“’Tis the same here,” said Charlie. “Better still, McGinnes is the keeper of fairy lore.”
At her wide smile, the cook’s gaze sharpened and he looked at Tara with sudden interest. “Are ye Irish then?”
“Half,” said Tara, hoping it would make a difference.
“Well, then.” His mouth turned up in a grin and he slapped his dough again. “Sure an’ I’ll be directing meself to that half, Miss Tara. Ye can help in the galley if you’ve a mind to.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. McGinnes.” Tara sensed he’d bestowed upon her a great honor, though she wasn’t sure it was much of an honor to serve in what was the ship’s kitchen when she much preferred serving as crew. Still, she liked this Irish cook and wanted the man who made her meals on her side.
“McGinnes will do.”
“I’d better see if the captain needs anything,” said Peter, nervously looking toward the cabin door. “I’ve been gone a while.”
“Take the skipper his coffee, lad,” admonished McGinnes, handing the boy a mug of the steaming brew he had just poured.
“But I took him coffee this morning,” protested the cabin boy.
“I’ll have none o’ yer arguments now. The skipper does better with the drink close at hand. Oh, and take this tidbit for Sam.” The cook handed the boy a piece of what appeared to be cooked pork.
“Sam?” Tara asked. She couldn’t recall hearing of a seaman named Sam and wondered why the cabin boy would be delivering bits of meat to him.
“The captain’s cat,” said the red-haired McGinnes. “Followed the skipper onto the ship one day in St. Thomas a year ago. The crew accepted her as one of ’em. Named her after the fighter Dutch Sam. They had a fo
ndness, ye see, for the boxer called ‘the man with the iron hand.’ Sure an’ it seems fittin’ for a cat with too many toes and paws as big as a fighter’s fist, don’t it now?”
“Samantha might be a better choice,” she teased, “since the cat’s a female.”
McGinnes just shook his head and went back to pounding his floured dough. “Females!”
Chapter 5
A few evenings later, Tara received an invitation to dine with the captain in his cabin. The idea had obviously pleased his cabin boy, because Peter was wearing a broad grin when he delivered the message. Though it wasn’t unusual for a captain to ask a passenger to join him for the evening meal, she could not help but wonder what had precipitated this change in the captain’s otherwise distant demeanor. Was it to lecture her on something she’d done? Perhaps one of the crew who mumbled their discontent at having a woman aboard had been urging the captain to keep her in her cabin.
“The cap’n asks you to join him and Mr. Ainsworth for dinner at four bells in the evening watch. That is six of the clock, Miss Tara,” he said, his dimple evident in his smile.
“I know what four bells is, Peter, but thank you for making the time clear.” It was easy to like the cabin boy. “You can tell your captain that I accept his invitation.” No matter what lay behind the invitation, she was already tired of dining in her cabin alone, and she knew the captain would not be pleased if she joined the crew when they took their meals, as she often did on her brothers’ ships. When the cabin boy lingered, looking down at his toes, she asked, “Is there something else, Peter?”
He raised his head. “Yes, Miss Tara. Cap’n asks that you dress like a lady.” He must have seen her frown because he blushed and added, “He always dresses for dinner when he has company.”
“I see. All right, Peter. I will do as your captain requests in this as well.”
So he wanted her to dress like a lady, did he? Well, she supposed she could accommodate the oh-so-English captain. But she would do it her way. Digging into her trunk she found the gowns Aunt Cornelia had meticulously selected for her first Season, the ones Tara had packed knowing it would cheer her father to see her wear them. Feeling a twinge at the thought of her father, she sent up a prayer for his well-being and dug deeper into her trunk to find the gowns that had been modified per Tara’s own requirements, one of which would do quite nicely for tonight.
The bodice of the cerulean blue silk gown she chose to wear was separately made from the high-waisted skirt and only loosely attached to it with buttons under the wide green sash. She was slim enough she didn’t need a corset, only a firm bodice lining, which allowed her much greater freedom of movement. The most marvelous part was that the skirt could be torn away to reveal the breeches she wore underneath. Anyone looking at her would see only the gown. While the dress appeared like one of those she’d worn to events of the London Season, in fact, it was two pieces with breeches beneath.
It made her feel secure knowing she could tear away the frippery, if need be, and still be decently clothed and able to scale the rigging. It had been a source of amusement for her brothers, who were aware of what their sister hid beneath her feminine attire as she acted the hostess for visitors aboard their ships. Her father had never known of the ruse.
Tonight her hair had been a bit of a struggle, but she’d finally managed to gather it into some semblance of order at her crown. Checking her appearance in the small mirror, she draped the blue and green shawl over her shoulders, and fortified herself against what she thought might be a difficult evening.
At her knock, the captain’s cabin door opened and young Peter bid her enter, going out as she came in. On the right side of the cabin next to the windows stood the captain and his first mate, each holding a glass of brandy. Used to the ship’s gentle roll, it was easy enough to walk to them while still acting the lady.
“Ah, Miss McConnell,” said the captain, raising his glass in toast while sliding his gaze from her eyes to her silk slippers and back again, settling on her breasts where the mounds rose above her bodice. A gleam flickered in his golden eyes for a moment. She was used to the approving glances of men in her life, but she had never before encountered such a brazen inspection of her body. The intensity of his perusal made her want to squirm.
“Your appearance presents quite the transformation, Miss McConnell,” he said with a wry smile. “Why, you almost make me think you are on your way to a London ball.”
Tara did not appreciate his sarcasm. After all, she was dressed this way at his insistence. As young Peter had assured her, the captain was elegantly attired and damnably handsome in a black superfine coat, ivory silk waistcoat and buff-colored pantaloons that descended into shiny black Wellington boots. His skin, bronzed from the sun, was a stark contrast to his white shirt and simply tied cravat. Even his mane of black hair, usually in wild disarray from the wind on deck, was tamed this evening to fall in soft waves at his nape. She’d never seen any man in a London ballroom as virile and handsome as Nicholas Powell. And she’d never felt the stirrings of attraction for any man as she did for the Raven’s captain.
“I’ve had my fill of London’s ballrooms, Captain.”
The first mate glided to her side. With his well-groomed blond hair, dark blue coat and gray breeches, he looked the part of a gentleman. Bowing over her hand, he acted the part as well, rising to bestow upon her a look of approval.
“Do not allow Captain Powell’s teasing to bother you, Miss McConnell,” he said with a warm smile. “You are lovely.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ainsworth. I can assure you it was quite an effort to accommodate the captain’s request without my maid. I am pleased you think I’ve succeeded.”
“As there are none aboard ship to assist a lady’s dressing,” said the captain, reaching for a liquor decanter sitting on his desk, “we salute your efforts. The gown is a welcome change from the breeches you seem to prefer.” Then holding up a glass, he ventured, “May I pour you something to drink? Sherry, perhaps?”
“I’d prefer what you and Mr. Ainsworth are having.” Brandy was the drink her brothers favored, and she was used to the powerful liquor, though she typically sipped it, aware of the fierce burn it would bring to her throat if she swallowed too much at one time.
The captain raised a brow at her words before shrugging and pouring her the drink she’d requested. “Certainly.”
Her fingers grazed his as she accepted the glass from his outstretched hand, sending a shock through her arm and a sudden realization of how vulnerable she was to his masculine presence. He seemed amused, as if aware of how he affected her. Arrogant Englishman. He was the kind who attracted women, likely by the droves.
Tara brought the brandy to her lips and took a healthy swallow. Letting the liquor burn away thoughts of the handsome captain, she glanced at the table set with gilded china as fine as any she’d seen in London. A lantern in the center provided subdued lighting.
“Do you often dine in such a manner while underway?” Her brothers never put on such a show while at sea. Perhaps it was a British characteristic to formally dine aboard ship.
“No. But then it isn’t often we have guests,” said the captain, emphasizing the last word as he followed her gaze to the table, “or the calm seas to entertain them.”
Additional lanterns were set about the cabin, and together with the light from the stove, they cast a warm glow over the features of the two men. “Mr. McGinnes, with the able assistance of Mr. Greene, has outdone himself, in your honor I suspect,” said the first mate with a grin.
Tara’s thoughts warmed at the memory of the dimple-cheeked boy. “Where has the lad gone?”
“He’ll be along shortly with our food,” said Mr. Ainsworth. “He went to see if McGinnes is ready, and to enlist Billy Uppington’s help in carrying the dishes.”
She’d been helping the young seaman Billy with his knots and had been glad he and the cabin boy were friends for she knew Billy was lonely. “And how is John? I’ve
not seen him today. Is he healing well from his fall?”
“A little slower on the deck, perhaps, but he’ll be fine,” said the first mate.
The captain smiled lazily at her over his glass, his face taking on a curious expression. “Tara—the name sounds Irish. Is it?”
She took another sip of her brandy. At least now he’s looking at my eyes instead of my breasts. She didn’t know whether she should politely smile in return—the last thing she wanted was to encourage him—but since he was being nice, she said, “Well, yes, it is Celtic. Tara is the place where the Irish high kings dwelled, but my father was reminded of it in quite a different context, and that is how he came to give me the name.”
“Really? And how is that?” said the captain.
“He’d always been interested in myths and stories. On a voyage to the South Seas the year before I was born, he learned of the Polynesian sea goddess, Tara.”
“The goddess of the sea…hmm,” the captain said, peering down at her from his great height. His golden eyes darkened in the soft light and suddenly it was as if there was no one in the cabin save the two of them. She could feel the heat from his penetrating gaze. What was it in his eyes she was seeing? A shiver raced up her spine. She took another swallow of brandy to quiet her nerves and looked away as Mr. Ainsworth spoke.
“It’s a beautiful name, and it fits you somehow. It might be your eyes, the same blue-green of those tropical waters.” The compliment from the first mate made the heat rise in her cheeks. It brought a frown to the captain’s face.
“Thank you,” Tara said. “I can assure you I vastly prefer it to the name he had been saving should he be blessed with a girl.”
The captain raised a dark brow in question, suspending his glass of brandy in front of his lips.