The schooner.
He returned to his desk, picked up his pencil, and went back to work. Fatigue made the drawing blur before his eyes, and he took a long swig of cold black coffee. He loved this stage of design, when the drawings themselves seemed to come alive beneath his hands. He envisioned the reality, the ship they would be, and his heart beat a little faster with anticipation and excitement. A side view, a turned-turtle view, a fore and an aft view of the hull. The dimensions noted carefully in the corner of the paper—beam molded and beam extreme, depth in hold and craft. Particulars—of mast height and spar length, of cannon placement and rigging details. He grinned. Old Ephraim had doubted his identity, eh? Well, these drafts would prove it far better than a dried-out ball of useless pulp.
A rap on the door startled him and he jerked up, his gaze moving to the chipped sandglass. Two bells of the midwatch, though Annabel’s was now somewhere beneath the inky surface of the Merrimack River. In landsman’s terms, one o’clock in the morning, almost twelve hours since his fateful departure from Ashton’s house—
The rap came again, impatient this time. “For heaven’s sake, foighne ort!” he called, tossing his pencil aside and rubbing his tired eyes. It was Dalby, no doubt, coming to complain about a fever, chest pains, indigestion, or whatever else he imagined he was dying from this time. Rising carefully to avoid hitting his head on the deck beams, Brendan made his way, stooping, across the steeply tilted deck and flung open the door. “Faith, Dalby, can’t it wait until morn—”
It wasn’t Dalby O’Hara standing there with a hand held to his stomach, but Mira Ashton, dressed in a pretty homespun gown of all things, with a hand held to her bosom. Obviously the way he’d jerked the door open had caught her by surprise—but it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt at seeing her standing there.
“D’ar m’anam,” he managed, so startled that he unconsciously reverted to Irish.
“Sorry to disturb you, Captain Merrick.”
“I’ll bet you are.” He tore his gaze from the creamy flesh so tantalizingly displayed above the lace of her decolletage. “What are you doing here? And how the devil did you get by my watch?”
She fidgeted, picking at her sleeve as though the gown was not something she was accustomed to wearing. In all probability, it was not. “I didn’t. Your lieutenant stopped me as I boarded, but I told him my father was building a ship for you, so he let me through.”
And then she brushed past him, barging into the cabin with as much force as the cannonball that had destroyed it. Seating herself in his chair, she caught a handful of her thick, board-straight hair and began twisting it around her fist, back and forth and up and around in a way that caught the light from the candle and did odd things to Brendan’s heart and the temperature of his skin.
“Miss Ashton.” She let go of her hair and met his gaze, one green eye disappearing behind a fall of hair that tumbled down over her pixie face at that very moment. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the time or not—somehow, I should think that you are, given the fact that your household does not lack for timepieces—but don’t you think it’s rather late to be calling on a gentleman? And if, by some miracle of ignorance, you’re not aware of the time, then certainly you’re aware of the impropriety of visiting me in the dead of night, and all by yourself, at that. I would urge you to consider your reputation.”
“Captain Merrick, I’m fully aware of the hour. But it was the only time I could sneak out. You see, Father has his nightcap at eleven-thirty, and goes to bed at eleven forty-five. He stays up and reads from the New Testament until twelve-thirty. Right now he’s up to Romans, chapter two, I believe. At exactly twelve thirty-three he snuffs his candle—”
“Miss Ashton—”
“And at twelve forty-five he falls asleep, which I know because I can hear him snoring—”
“Miss Ashton!”
“And at four-thirty he gets up to use the priv—”
“Miss Ashton, please!”
She rose and moved across the cabin, her petticoat hem sweeping up dust and glass and wood splinters, her finger trailing across his desk and leaving a line through the dust left by damage from Crichton’s guns.
“Sorry for running you down in the street today,” she murmured. “It was an accident.”
“I accept your apology, Miss Mira.”
“I . . . I hope you weren’t hurt too badly.”
“I am quite recovered, thank you.”
“And I hope you’ll reconsider having Father build your schooner. You’ll break his heart if you have someone else do it.”
Brendan just stood looking at her, trying to reconcile this vision standing before him with the smart-mouthed hoyden who’d been pummeling Liam with her bare fists not twelve hours before.
“May I see them?” she asked, looking up.
“See what?”
She nodded toward the drawings on the table. “The drafts.”
He picked them up and handed them to her.
He saw the exact moment she realized just what she was looking at. When casual interest became sudden, wide-eyed shock. Her jaw fell open and she just stood there, speechless, staring down at the drafts with her thick hair tumbling down over one shoulder and brushing the vellum. She blinked. Once. Twice. And then she looked up, and their gazes met.
“You drew this?” she whispered, her eyes filling with awe. “Designed it?”
He glanced away, looking at his desk, the moonlit river outside, the glass-strewn floor—anywhere but into those translucent green eyes. Spying a pitcher, he grabbed a mug and began to pour. “Would you care for some water, Miss Moyrrra?”
She ignored his question, and the mug. “Did you?”
He gave a little shrug, and grinned.
“Captain Merrick, I . . . this . . . this is amazing.” She was studying him with unnerving intensity. “I’ve never seen anything like these drafts in my life.”
He began to fidget like a six-year-old at an all-day sermon.
“Do you always have such a hard time handling compliments, Captain Merrick?”
He gave her a fleeting grin. “Do you always have such a hard time stating your purpose in visiting gentlemen in the wee hours of the morn?”
“I don’t usually visit gentlemen in the wee hours of the morn. But if I did, I should think my purpose would be quite clear.”
He almost choked on his water. “Then what is your purpose now, Miss Mira?”
She gave one of her cat-smiles. “To try to get your business back from Tracy.”
“Tracy?” He set the mug down and looked at her, puzzled. “Who’s Tracy?”
“Patrick and Nathaniel Tracy? The shipbuilders?”
“Sorry, I don’t know them.”
“I heard you’re giving them your business.”
“Well, you heard wrong.”
“Then you’re going to place it with Father?”
“I didn’t say that either,” he said, although that was precisely his intent. He’d play her along for a wee bit and see what she was up to. As for this Tracy thing, it was no doubt a rumor fabricated by Liam designed to come back to haunt him.
“You’ve got to let Father build this schooner for you,” she said, vehemently. “You have to. If you don’t, he’s going to be furious!”
“So? It seems to me that he spends the better part of his life in that state. He should find it quite comfortable by now.”
“But you don’t understand!”
“Understand what?”
She stood there looking very small and helpless—Mira Ashton, helpless?—with the gown clinging to her curves, nipping a waist that needed no nipping and showing a full and lovely bosom that invited his stare, held it, and wouldn’t let it go. After seeing her garbed in shirt and trousers, the gown, which would’ve looked quite benign on anyone else, enhanced her fine figure in a way that made his mouth go dry and his thoughts turn toward other things.
Such as the usual reason a woman might seek out
a man in the middle of the night.
He took another gulp of water and wondered if steam was rising from his pores.
“Understand why I came here,” she said softly, finally putting the drafts down. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “I came here to bargain with you.”
He quirked a brow. And then Mira saw amusement beginning to dance in his eyes. They were warm, honey-colored eyes that knew how to caress a woman without stripping her, to flatter her without insulting her, and he was doing that now. Mira felt her cheeks grow warm, not out of maidenly embarrassment, but in direct response to the assessing admiration and invitation in their laughing depths.
What would it be like to let him touch her? Hold her? Kiss—
Picking up a quadrant from his desk, he asked, “And why are you so desperate for my business, Miss Ashton? Do mishaps such as those that have befallen me since I’ve made your family’s acquaintance happen to all of your potential clients? Is that why you’ve come a-begging, lassie?” The grin deepened. “Business a bit slow lately?”
She colored, for his teasing speculation had found the truth. “Yes, but . . . no one’s been really hurt. Just little things, like Caesar spilling the gravy in Mr. Whigham’s lap—”
“Caesar? Mr. Whigham?”
“Caesar’s a cat that I rescued. Rescue Effort Number Twenty-Nine, I think. Mr. Whigham was a client. Or would’ve been, anyway, if Caesar hadn’t jumped up on the supper table the night he was supposed to sign the contract and spilled hot gravy all down the front of his breeches.”
“And Caesar? What was his fate that he needed your, er, rescuing?”
“Caesar’s a she. She was ship’s cat on Captain Greenleaf’s brig when I found one of his gunners abusing her.”
“Am I correct in assuming that this gunner met with a fate that was far less, er, pleasant than, uh, Caesar’s?”
Mira matched his grin, her face innocently impish. “Aye. I caught up to him that night and blackened his eye. Father was furious.”
“For blackening his eye?”
“No, for bringing the cat home. She was pregnant.”
“Oh.”
“And he was even more furious when she had her kittens.”
She looked very serious, and Brendan tugged at his mouth to hide his amusement. “And why was that, Miss Ashton? Doesn’t he like kittens?”
“Oh, he likes them, all right. He just doesn’t like seeing them born on the dining room table. You see, we were entertaining another client that night ...”
“Who no doubt decided to take his business to this Tracy fellow instead?”
She smirked. “Something like that.”
“I see. Well, Miss Ashton, as you’ve come here without cat, dog, or horse, I assume that I’m safe for the time being. Therefore, why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here.”
She swallowed hard. The drafts lay atop the table, and she picked them up again, her heartbeat quickening as she took in the schooner’s rapine hull, the sharp rake of her masts, and her lean, predatory lines once more. Matt hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d predicted this ship would see the Ashton yards out of their slump. He hadn’t been talking through his hat when he predicted she’d be the pride of Newburyport. Hell, she’d not only be the pride of Newburyport, she’d be the pride of Massachusetts.
Wild despair filled her. She had to get Captain Merrick’s business back.
“Captain Merrick, I’m sure you realize that your schooner’s design and, uh, differences from what is considered standard will make her quite costly to build.” If Father caught her at this, he’d be furious. “According to these plans, you want her hull sheathed in copper. Where do you think we’re going to find copper with a war going on? You want tops’ls and t’gallants, and studding sails, too. On a schooner? I’ve never seen the like! And you want hatches that face aft instead of forward, differences in rigging, and all sorts of unconventional modifications to deck features, let alone deviations from a standard hull shape—” She pointed toward the sleek bows. “—like this forward-raked stem, for instance. These things cost money.”
He was at the window again, sipping his water and staring off into the silvery, moonlit night. “Drier,” he said simply.
“What?”
“Facing the hatches aft, instead of forward. ’Twill keep her much drier belowdecks. Never could see the sense of having them open toward the fore.”
“Captain, with studding sails on her, I really don’t think you’ll have to worry about how dry she’ll be. I guarantee that’ll be the last thing you’ll be thinking about when a gust of wind hits her and knocks her over!”
He turned then and smiled, patiently, the way he might have done with an uncomprehending child. “Miss Ashton,” he said, coming forward and standing so close, she could feel the heat of his body and smell the pleasant aroma of his shaving soap. Gently, he took the drafts from her, his fingers accidentally brushing hers, causing her heart to jump madly beneath this foolish, constricting, silly gown she’d worn to try and impress him here tonight. But he, without even trying, was sure making an impression on her, and now her mouth was going dry as she stared at his hand, its long fingers now tracing, no, caressing the curve of the pencil-drawn hull. She trembled, wondering how those hands would feel on her, what it would be like to have him looking at her with as much fond admiration as he did those drafts.
And then he spoke, his voice soft, mellifluous, and very close to her ear as he set the drawings on his desk and, bending down beside her, pointed at the hull. “Kindly take a second look at the depth of her draft, Miss Mira. Do you honestly think she’ll not handle a fine press of sail? A wet boat she may be, but a stable one.”
“I don’t question your designing abilities,” she said, moving away from him in hopes of calming her racing heart.
“Oh? Then do you question my sailing?”
“Captain Merrick, are you going to listen to me or not?”
“Miss Ashton, are you going to offer me something I can use or not?”
“Fine!” Her chin came up and she stormed away, yanking out a chair and throwing herself into it with eyes flashing. Wryly, he noticed that she didn’t perch birdlike on the chair’s edge as a lady would’ve done; but then, he knew enough about this wee sprite, this bean sí, to know that despite the gown and the forced genteel demeanor, she still had the manners—and the temper—of a dockside brawler. And now she was leaning back, one arm thrown over the top rung of the chair and winding that thick hair around her wrist again, and it was only as she raised her leg as though intending to put her foot atop the table that she caught his eye and seemed to remember herself. Coughing discreetly to hide his amusement, Brendan watched her grin somewhat sheepishly and put that tiny foot back down on the deck where it belonged.
“I’ll be honest with you, Captain Merrick. I have nothing to bargain with, really. Oh, I have cats, but you don’t strike me as a man who’s terribly fond of them, and besides, they don’t like you either. I can offer you breeding rights to a fine Arabian stallion—” She ignored his shocked stare. “—but I have the feeling you don’t care for horses very much, and after today, I probably can’t blame you. And I have half ownership in the brig Proud Mistress, but what good would she be to you? She’s a fine ship, swift and sturdy, but beside her, your schooner would look like—like a kestrel beside a turkey vulture.”
“Kestrel,” he said softly, his eyes thoughtful.
“Huh?”
“Oh, nothing. Do go on.”
“So I guess what I’m trying to say is that you simply have to give your business to Father.” She became desperate when he looked away in amusement. “Captain Merrick, please! I know you’ve had a . . . hard day, but you must understand how a shipbuilder like my father would sell his soul to build a vessel like your schooner. I’m prepared to beat any quotation that Tracy, Cross, Greenleaf, or even Hackett offers you.”
She didn’t have that authority, but he didn’t have to know that. Rig
ht now it was more important for him to see the light. She could make Father see it later.
“Any? And what will you give me if I do so, Miss Ashton?”
“Give you?”
Brendan held the quadrant up to the lantern, squinting as though taking a measurement. “Aye, give me. I do believe you came here with a proposal? A bargain, you called it.”
“I just told you, I could lower the price.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, looking unimpressed.
“Or we could better the delivery date, beat whatever Tracy or anyone else offers you.”
The captain yawned, picked up the sandglass, and flipped it over.
“There might be some way to get that copper for you. I don’t know how just yet, but I’m sure I could think of something.”
Brendan sighed and tossed the quadrant to the desk. “I think it’s past my bedtime,” he said.
“But, Captain Merrick—”
“Miss Ashton, those offers are all well and good, but they’re not enough to convince me that I should give my business to your father.”
“Then what would convince you?”
He leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. She saw his warm, laughing gaze drop to her bosom, move slowly up her throat, linger on her mouth, and finally meet her eyes. She suddenly knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.
“A kiss from a pretty lass—” He grinned, full of roguish charm. “—may be all the convincing I need, Miss Moyrrra.”
“That’s . . . it?”
“That’s it.”
“Well then, I . . . I suppose that’s fair.”
“More than fair,” he agreed, his grin as weightless as a kite on a windy day. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid.”
“Afraid?” She laughed, too loudly, and made a dismissive motion with her hand. “I’m not afraid of a kiss.”
“Then come here, lass, and prove it.” His honey-colored eyes were growing warmer.
“Why don’t you come over here?”
“With pleasure,” he said, and Mira felt everything inside her stop as he straightened up from the desk and came toward her. Her heart began to beat frantically against her breastbone.
Captain Of My Heart Page 9