by Regan Walker
Tara McConnell was another matter, a rebellious young innocent he very much wanted. And she was ever before him, pitching in to help his crew with their work, stitching up the wounded and showing poor Billy how to do something. He had to admit she didn’t treat any man as beneath her. Unlike Caroline, her nose wasn’t in the air or covered with a perfume-soaked handkerchief. Only yesterday, he had come up on deck to see her blacking the guns.
Striding toward the prow, he had stumbled upon her and his gunner.
“Miss McConnell, just what are you doing?”
She looked up from the deck where she sat blacking one side of the gun while Charlie rubbed the metal polish on the other side. Made of soot and oil, the mixture stunk up the deck, but it assured the guns would not reflect the sun and give away their position. With the possibility of encountering the pirate, he was taking no chances.
Her long tawny plait had fallen over her shoulder and she tossed it back, smearing the side of her face with the black grimy substance as she did. It only made her more winsome.
“I should think that is obvious. I’m helping Mr. Wilson.”
“Yes, I can see that. But it’s unseemly.”
“Not to me. It’s a task like any other. I may not be able to lift a gun but I can black one.” She grinned at Charlie, telling Nick they’d already had such an argument and the gunner had lost. Nick didn’t like it, not one bit, but short of confining the hoyden to her cabin, he supposed he’d have to tolerate it. If she wanted to blacken her face along with his gunner, so be it.
“Do not linger long here, Miss McConnell. You’re distracting my men.” He had seen the older members of his crew pausing in their work to watch the girl. And Smitty was scowling from where he polished the brightwork. She seemed oblivious to their intrusive stares. He was not.
“As you wish, Captain,” she said, going back to her work. “I’m almost finished anyway.”
It had riled him the chit could be so troublesome—though even smeared with soot she was a beauty.
He had returned to his cabin, where he shuffled through the charts until he found the one he sought. Checking their course, he had been pleased to realize they were only a few days out of Bermuda, where he’d planned to stop for provisions.
“There will be a new crop of rats for you, Sam,” he had said to the cat lounging on his desk.
The men would be happy, too, with a night in port and the pleasures that awaited them there.
Now, after tasting Tara McConnell’s lips once again, he had to ask himself, what of his own pleasure? There were women in St. George and Hamilton who would greet him with welcoming arms, but the prospect suddenly had little appeal. Instead, his mind conjured the image of a long tawny plait moving against a well-shaped backside.
He knew he would not sleep well that night.
* * *
Tara walked along the deck looking for a place she could offer her help. As she passed by Mr. Wilson, he looked up from where he was cleaning one of the guns, his sun-bleached hair blowing about his tanned face.
“Morning, Miss McConnell.”
“Morning, Mr. Wilson. The guns are looking fine.”
Mr. Wilson cast her a smile, obviously pleased someone had noticed his workmanship. “Thanks to your help with the blacking polish.” The day before when she’d helped him at blacking the guns, Tara had thought it odd that the gunner was preparing for trouble. It caused her to wonder why a merchant ship would be carrying such guns. Did the captain expect to need them?
“Is there a reason you spend so much time with the guns lately?”
His smile faltered and his gaze slid away. “One never knows.”
His answer was evasive even if true. Her brothers had often remarked on the increasing numbers of pirates plying the waters of the Caribbean since the war. Could it be the crew was worried?
Tara continued down the deck, heading aft. Nearing amidships she spotted Jake walking toward her.
“Good morn to you, Miss Tara,” he stopped to say. She didn’t miss his wary glance toward one of the crew who had been surreptitiously watching her from the rigging where he worked a repair.
“It is,” Tara said, tipping her wide-brimmed hat back to observe the clear blue sky. She had grown used to the presence of the tall, muscled bos’n and his nearly white blond hair. Her guardian angel. “I thought I might visit Nate at the helm. Do you have time to join us?”
Eyes the same color as the sky looked back at her with regret. “No. I must check on the lads. They’re roustin’ the anchor hawser and seein’ it’s clean and dry for Bermuda. Can’t have rot settlin’ in, ja?” She nodded and he left her to stride toward the fo’castle, where Tara had observed a small cluster of younger crew bent over the anchor cable.
Old Nate Baker and the first mate were at the helm when she arrived, Nate at the wheel and Mr. Ainsworth asking, “How does she bear?”
“She’s been makin’ good, still holdin’ true at south by southwest, sir,” answered Nate.
“Hullo,” Tara said as she joined the men.
“Good morning, Miss McConnell,” said Mr. Ainsworth.
“Mornin’,” Nate echoed.
“Mind if I look at the log, sir?” she asked the first mate. She had been checking the ship’s log when she first came on deck. It was a habit she’d picked up on her father’s ship in the early days.
“Not at all.” His mouth hitched up in a grin. “I see you do it often. Is it something you do on your brother’s ship?”
“Yes, but it began even before I sailed with George.” Tara leaned toward the binnacle and took the pegboard into her hands, noting the ship’s speed and heading from the last watch change.
As she studied the log, she felt more than saw the captain step on deck. The sound of his boots on the planks as he neared sent a wave of heat flowing through her. Daring a glance at him, she saw black hair whipping around his face as he stood, legs spread, his back to the wind. He raised the mug he’d brought with him to his lips and set his piercing gaze upon her. “Miss McConnell, what brings you to the helm?”
Was he smirking at her? Surely he knew she was interested in all the workings of the ship. “I often join Nate at the helm early in the day. It might be you’ve slept through my visits.”
Mr. Ainsworth chuckled and Nate rolled his eyes, discretely looking out toward the sea, but the captain’s back stiffened at her inference.
“I have no need to explain my schedule to you, Miss McConnell,” he said with a frown.
“Of course not, Captain.” She had made her point and he had made his. She bid the men good-day and left for the galley.
Chapter 7
Nick watched his passenger disappear down the hatch, fascinated by her agility on a moving deck. Most women would struggle for balance. Not Tara McConnell. But then, the honey-haired hoyden was not like most women. Indeed, she insisted on appearing more a man than a woman, in her breeches and hat. Then another image appeared in his mind: Tara McConnell wearing a fetching blue gown nearly the color of her aquamarine eyes. It had revealed what her vest normally hid, reminding him she could be entirely feminine. She’d worn other gowns in the nights since she’d first joined him and Russ for dinner, each one bewitching. The kiss he’d stolen was never far from his mind. The taste of her lips and the feel of her curves pressed against his body haunted him.
As if he’d heard Nick’s thoughts, Nate said over his shoulder, “She’s not like the others, and ye’d best be rememberin’ it, lad. This one’s not there for yer pleasure.”
Nick darted a glance in Russ’s direction, but the first mate’s attention was focused on whatever he was seeing through his spyglass.
“What makes you think I want her, old man?” asked Nick with good humor. He was enjoying his banter with the old salt, as usual, but somehow this was different, more personal.
“I see the way ye look at her—the whole crew’s talking about the two of ye staring at each other. ’Tis like a keg of powder about to flame when
ever you and the girl are on deck. A few of the older crew have been grumblin’ about a woman aboard ship.”
“Miss McConnell is an attractive young woman, Nate. And if you haven’t noticed, there are few of those about until we reach Bermuda. The whole crew stares at her.”
“It ain’t the crew I be worryin’ about; ’tis you, lad.”
Nick passed Nate an amused look but he could see his old friend’s warning was given in earnest.
* * *
The next morning, Nick was roused from a deep sleep while his cabin was still cloaked in darkness. The ship was rolling like a drunken sailor, flinging his body to and fro upon his bed. A mug left on his table crashed to the deck and a book left unsecured on his shelf joined it with a loud thud. He came instantly awake, his years at sea telling him what such omens portended. A storm was on its way. A big one.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he rose quickly and dressed in the dim light of just before dawn. Anxious to be up on deck, he yanked opened his cabin door. A small shadowy figure swept past his boots and darted into his cabin. The huge white paws stood out like dismembered appendages as Dutch Sam let out a protesting yowl. Given the animal’s usual habits, the cat was a bit early, but perhaps she was anxious at the coming storm. Animals sensed those things.
“The cabin’s yours, Sam. Best stay below. It will be a rough one, I expect.”
With a loud meow, the cat leaped onto the unmade bed, settled herself against a pillow and trained her probing green eyes on him. Why he felt scolded he couldn’t fathom.
Nick skipped his usual stop in the galley for breakfast and hastened up the ladder. There was almost no wind, though the ship was rolling and pitching over huge swells.
Russ approached, his gait unsteady and a concerned look on his face. “I’ve called up the sleeping watch, Nick, so you’ll have all hands at the ready.”
“Thanks, Russ.”
When the additional crew began scrambling onto the deck, Nick shouted, “Stow the loose gear and supplies. All guns into the hold!” The men acknowledged the order and hastened to the tasks. He was glad they’d have time to take the guns below. The task would take time, but they were equipped to do it and he wanted no unnecessary weight above decks.
Nick spotted his passenger working with Jake, Nate, John and Billy to rig manropes from fore to aft. If the coming storm, as his instincts told him, proved to be formidable, the long lines would be needed to keep the men from washing overboard. He was sure Nate had anticipated the need and begun the task before either Russ or he could make it an order. The girl, bent in concentration over her work, looked up, as if sensing his gaze. His gut tightened at the sight of her. Nate had been right. He couldn’t help but stare at the picture she presented, her rounded backside in breeches and the long tawny plait reminding him she was a woman, a very attractive and vulnerable young woman. He hoped the hoyden didn’t give him too much trouble when he ordered her to her cabin. The thought of her on deck when the storm hit was more than a little unsettling.
John Trent struggled to remain standing as the ship rolled, his injured leg obviously still paining him. He would be among the first Nick would send below decks.
An oddly colored light grew brighter around him, causing Nick to turn and witness the sun rising in a reddening sky. But in the west, clouds were just beginning to form on the distant horizon. “Russ, see that any who have yet to eat do so shortly. There will be only cold biscuits and dried beef after that. It may be a long while before the galley is reopened and McGinnes can put hot food in their bellies.”
“Aye, Nick I will. You ought to take your own advice. I’ve already had breakfast.”
Ignoring for the moment his first mate’s counsel, and bracing himself against the rising swells, Nick spoke his thought aloud, “Since we are not far out of Bermuda, I’m thinking this could be a hurricane.”
“Bit early in the year for that, isn’t it?” asked Russ.
“True. But you know as well as I that there are always exceptions with storms, and if it isn’t a hurricane, it’s going to be one hell of a black squall, or perhaps a series of them.” Nick studied the rising wind and the waves and consulted the barometer, which was dropping fast. The wind speed and direction and his experience told him there might be sufficient time to sail around the storm. He had to try.
“Set our course south, Russ, and see the lads put on more sail. I am going to try and circle around the storm, keeping it over our starboard quarter.”
“Aye, will do. You going below?”
“Just for a short while. I want to check one of the charts and get some food. Can you see that all the hatches, save the centerline, are battened down?”
“I’ll take care of it, Nick. Mr. Adams has already made sure the extra sails and storm-sails are ready.” The Raven’s sailmaker, Augie Adams was conscientious so Nick was unsurprised the seaman had anticipated the need for extra canvas should the storm take some of their sheets and sails, a possibility Nick dreaded.
He made his way to where his passenger was working alongside Nate, straining to pull the manrope tight. She raised her head in question when he paused next to her.
“Miss McConnell, have you had breakfast yet?”
“Not yet, Captain,” she said, returning her concentration to the rope. “I wanted to help Nate and Jake with this first.”
“Mr. Johansson,” he said, addressing the bos’n working nearby to secure the long rope, “I’m taking Miss McConnell below. You and the men finish this and then check the rigging. The lady may return but not for long. I want her below when the storm finally hits. Is that clear?”
“Ja, Captain. I see to it.” Protective as Jake was of the girl, Nick suspected he welcomed the order. Nick was taking no chances with her safety. He intended to assure his peace of mind by locking her in her cabin.
Hearing the bos’n’s words, his passenger stiffened, looking to rebel. “I can wait for breakfast, Captain. I want to help secure this line.”
“And I want to speak with you, Miss McConnell. Moreover, as you may have heard, I’ve ordered all the crew to eat, and since you seem to feel you are one of them, I’ll be treating you no differently. You’ll be coming below with me.”
Turning the rope over to Nate, who nodded his encouragement for her to comply, the girl sighed and silently followed Nick as he made his way toward the hatch leading to the galley. Crossing the deck was a challenge even for Nick as the growing ocean swells kept the ship lurching up and down. He looked over his shoulder to see the girl doing well keeping up, surefooted thing that she was. She had forgone her hat this morning, apparently anticipating the rising wind, and wisps of her tawny hair flew about her face. All Nick could think of was the need to keep her safe.
* * *
Tara sensed the captain was worried. She’d observed his serious demeanor when he’d first come on deck, his black brows forming a discernible frown on his tanned face as he gazed into the horizon, his ebony locks blowing about his head. It would take great skill to balance the need to add sail to try and beat a path around the storm against the mandate to bring down the sail before too much wind made it impossible. She marveled that he had chosen to try. She’d lived through storms with her brothers, the ones that tore up the seaboard and the ones unique to the northeast, and knew the close calls that would have to be made. It was she who had anticipated the need for the manrope, and Nate and the others had joined her in the task. What little there was of her gear was already stowed.
She followed the captain into the galley, the smell of recently fried bacon and freshly made coffee making her stomach rumble. McGinnes was bent under the worktable, securing supplies, sending up a great noise of clanging pots and pans with each pitch of the ship. Heat still emanated from the large black stove, but as Tara expected, the fire had been extinguished in anticipation of the storm. The stack of wood that usually lay beside the stove was gone.
Rising from his work, McGinnes greeted her. “Good-morn to ye, Miss Tara.”
And, tipping his head to the captain: “Skipper.” Placing his large hands on the chopping board, he asked, “Is it food the two of ye be wantin’?”
“Whatever you can serve up, McGinnes,” said the captain, “and you’ll likely see a few more stragglers who have yet to be fed. I should think a half hour would be sufficient before you close the galley and switch to whatever cold food you have at the ready.”
“Sure an’ I was expectin’ that, Skipper.”
Tara placed one hand on the cook’s worktable to steady herself against the pitching ship as McGinnes produced bread and butter and thick rashers of bacon he’d obviously cooked up in anticipation of a quick meal. Hungry from her morning work, Tara eagerly began eating. The bacon was still warm and tasty.
“Has Peter been here yet?” the captain asked as he snatched a slice of bacon off the plate.
“Aye, just left for your cabin. Here’s yer coffee,” the stout cook said, handing Tara and the captain mugs of the hot liquid. Tara wrapped her hands around the mug and lifted it to take a swallow.
“She’s gonna be a big one, ain’t she, Skipper?” McGinnes asked with a penetrating gaze.
“I suspect so,” said the captain, stuffing another piece of bacon in his mouth and downing it with a swig of coffee.
“Aye, me bones tell me ’twill be a severe one.” Then running his hand through his graying red hair, he said, “I could’ve sworn I sighted a mermaid in the wake last eve. A bad omen, to be sure, always a sign of coming storms and rough seas.”