“Why so angry, Miss Moyrrra?”
She burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. Rigel’s horsey scent clung to her fingers. “Go away, would you? Just go away.”But he didn’t go away. He moved closer, his fingers dry and warm against her cold, wet ones as he gently tried to pry her hands from her face, and failing, let his palms slide down her wrists, her lower arms, finally grasping her by the shoulders and drawing her stiffly up against his smartly buttoned coat. She caught the clean scents of wool and sea-wind, felt buttons pressing against her lips, her brow, her cheek.
How bloody embarrassing. She wanted to hate his guts—the English ones, the Irish ones, and even the American ones, if he had any. But he was solid and warm and comforting, and she clung to him like a child, her face buried against his chest while he stared down at her with a helpless expression robbing his handsome face of its usual good humor.
Gently, he asked, “Tears, Miss Moyrrra? Might I ask why?”
“It’s none of your bloody business!”
“I see.” Nodding thoughtfully, he set her away from himself and turned away, hands clasped above his coattails, chestnut queue lying between his perfectly straight, perfectly British shoulders. Like many of the other privateer captains, he wore a blue uniform with red facings, fashioned after those of the American Continental navy—but he wore his with the dash and aplomb of a king’s officer.
For some reason, that made her all the more angry.
She eyed him as he leaned against a stall door and poked at the straw with his toe. “But I should think it is my business,” he said logically. “After all, ’twas the launching of my ship that seems to have distressed you so. I might wonder why.”
“I have my own troubles, all right? If I wanted to share ’em with you, I would!”
“You’re a confusing lass, Miss Ashton.”
“I said I don’t want to talk about them!”
“Yes, I heard you. You may think me stupid—er, what was it you called me? A bucket of gull’s droppings?” He grinned, and a teasing light came into his eyes. “But I can assure you I’m not deaf. Besides, gull’s droppings smell quite foul. I don’t smell, do I?”
“What?”
“Buckets of bilge water are quite malodorous, too. Though I admit it’s been a while since I’ve actually bent down and stuck my nose in one. Actually, I prefer to wash with soap and clean water, like most people do. That’s why I’m puzzled.”
“Puzzled?” She stared at him. “Puzzled about what?”
“Why you seem to think I smell, of course.”
“I never said you smelled!”
“But don’t gull’s droppings? And bilge water?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She was about to turn and storm away from him when she saw that one corner of his mouth was twitching, and laughter danced in his gold-flecked eyes.
“You’re teasing me, Captain Merrick, and I don’t like it one bit!”
“Am I? Faith and troth, why would I do that?”
“Because you’re . . . you’re trying to make me feel better!”
“I am?” He cocked his head, eyes bright and deceptively innocent beneath the shadow of his tricorne. “And why would I do that?”
“Blast it all, I don’t know!”
“Hmm. Neither do I. Therefore, I suppose that’s not what I’m trying to do, is it?”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
He looked at her blankly. “Why, I don’t know.”
“You and your damned Irish blarney! You’re toying with me! You’re making me look and feel like a bleeding fool! You came all the way over here just so you could do that, didn’t you? Just so you could—”
“Good God, Miss Ashton, that’s not the reason I came over here at all. Oh, no. I would never do that. Not to a lady. I mean, make you feel like a fool. And if you do feel like a fool, then I’m profusely sorry—”
“Captain Merrick, would you please stop!”
Again he flashed that damned Irishman’s grin that was so at odds with his proper English bearing. “Only,” he said jauntily, “if you will stop addressing me like that. I really prefer to be called Brendán. Or Brendan, if you like. ’Tis me name, ye know,” he said, piling on his brogue, “given t’ me by me ma aft’r th’ patron saint o’ sailors.”
“As long as there’s this—this friction between us, I’ll call you Captain Merrick.”
“Friction? Faith, is there friction between us?”
She was going to kill him. Damn and thunder, she would, she would, she would! Slamming her fist against the stall door, she swore like a sailor and shouted, “Then why the hell did you come here?”
He was looking at her hand, not grinning quite so hard now. Mira jerked away, jamming the hand into the pocket of her skirt to hide it—and keep herself from striking him with it.
“Ah, yes. Why did I come here?” he mused, bending his head down into his hand and pinching the bridge of his nose, as though trying awfully hard to remember. And then he looked up, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “To get a ship built. Your father builds the finest ones this side—”
“Not Newburyport, here! To this barn!”
“Why, to see you, of course.”
Why, to see you, of course.
Instantly, Mira forgot her throbbing hand. “To see . . . me?”
His eyes warmed. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for weeks.”
The earth shifted beneath Mira’s feet and, flustered, she turned away, not quite knowing how to react. She felt suddenly hot, despite the coldness of the day. “What about your new schooner? I’d have thought you’d want to spend time admiring her, not . . . coming here.”
“Ah, my schooner.” And then, grinning: “Do you like her name? I asked your da not to tell you what I’d decided to call her. I wanted it to be a surprise for you.”
Mira bent her head so her hair covered her hot cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“But, to answer your question, Miss Moyrrra, I can’t wait to admire her. But it would be far more fun if I had some company when I go aboard her for the first time.” He moved into her line of vision and leaned against Rigel, propping his elbow against the colt’s withers as he regarded her with one brow raised.
“You’re happy with her, then?” Mira asked.
“Delighted. In fact, I’ve given your da some, uh, enticement to get her masts stepped and rigging strung in half the time he’d originally planned.”
“You must be a terribly rich man, Captain.”
“Brendan.”
“Brendan.” She glared at him. “Are you, then?”
“Am I what?”
“Rich, dammit!”
“Oh no, not really. Not anymore. I gave the bulk of my savings to your father so he could build the ship. Of course, ’twas a pity he couldn’t get the copper hull sheathing I wanted, but I suppose if I’d had to pay for that, I could never have afforded her.”
“She’s prettier without it,” Mira allowed.
“You think so?”
“Don’t you? You’re the naval architect.”
Still caressing her with his gentle, laughing gaze, he moved away, plucking a halter from a nail and swinging it by one of its metal rings. “Naval architect? How flattering. I always fancied myself a simple sea captain.”
“You’re nothing like any sea captain I’ve ever known.”
He looked a little hurt. “And why is that?”
“You’re too . . . oh, I don’t know. Besides, whoever heard of a sea captain who doesn’t swear, spit, or drink?”
“How would you know I don’t drink?”
“I saw you take water that night in Annabel’s cabin!”
“Oh.”
“And you don’t spit or swear, either,” she reminded him, trying not to think of the way his assessing, admiring gaze was making her feel.
“Spitting’s a nasty habit, and I do, too, swear.”
“Not very well.”
“That�
��s true. You’re far better at it.”
“Damn right I am!”
He quirked a brow, teasing her. And then he grinned, and laughed. She flushed, feeling adrift as a rudderless ship in a storm. “So what are you, some religious fanatic or something? Is that why you don’t drink?”
“Oh, no, that’s not the reason a’tall. Although I do hold a shipboard service every Sunday for those who wish to partake of it.”
“Then what is the reason?”
“Why, to worship, of course.”
“That you don’t drink! “
“Oh, that.” He was gazing at her again, his eyes warm. “Do you care?”
“Not really!”
“Then why must you know?”
“Because I—” Her mouth snapped shut and she turned away, fingernails biting into her palms and leaving red crescents in the damp skin as she willed herself not to hit him. “You’re right,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “I don’t need to know. It’s none of my business, is it?”
“No, it’s not, but if it really matters to you—”
“It doesn’t really matter to me, all right?”
“I think it does. Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked. People ask questions because they wish to know the answers. People answer questions because they’ve been asked them. A very logical system, really. So therefore, I think that I should answer your question, simply because you asked it, and must really want an answer despite the fact your pride prevents you from admitting it. Actually, the reason—”
“Damn you, you’re the most irritating, vexing, exasperating—”
“—I don’t drink is because spirits don’t agree with me.”
She came up short, her face as red as the stripes of her gown. “Don’t agree with you? Hah, I’m not surprised! I’m sure there are many things in this world that don’t agree with you! Let’s just hope for your sake, Captain, that your bleedin’ schooner isn’t one of ’em!”
“And why do you say that?”
“With all that sail you intend to pile on her, one gust of wind’ll knock her flat on her side!”
“Well then, we’d better hope I’m as good a captain as you suspect I’m not, and thank the good Lord that I don’t drink, eh?”
She scrunched up one side of her face. “What?”
“I said, we’d better hope—”
“Never mind, Captain, I heard you the first time!”
“Brendan.”
“Brendan!”
Gripping the brush, she turned to Rigel once more, her heavy hair swinging against the horse’s rump, her eyes glittering with temper. The man was a lunatic! Insane! As nonsensical and idiotic as—
“Actually, Miss Moyrrra,” he said quietly, all serious now, “I was hoping I might call on you while I’m here in Newburyport.”
The brush seemed to stop of its own accord. “Call on me?”
“That is, if you don’t mind the blarney of a half-Irishman who finds you hopelessly enchanting.”
She suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes. “Me, enchanting? Father said I’m an embarrassment. That you’d be ashamed of me.”
“Ashamed? Nay, lass. Amused and bedeviled by you, afraid and enamored of you. Never ashamed. What nonsense! Faith, that wasn’t why you were crying, was it?”
“Might’ve been,”she said.
“Oh, lassie,”he murmured, shaking his head.
“I grew up without a mother. All I had was Matt and Father. Nobody ever taught me how to act like a lady, Captain.”
“Brendan,” he said softly, reaching up to cup her cheek.
“Brendan ...” She squeezed her eyes shut, unresisting, as he drew her up against his chest and held her close to his heart. She melted against him, no longer caring about the tears that slid down her cheeks, betraying her. She felt only his knuckles grazing her throat like the brush of a butterfly’s wings . . . his thumbs against her cheeks . . . his warm breath against her face. She lifted her face to his, and then there was only his mouth, gentle and tender, warm and firm and sweet and wonderful. . . .
With slow, languorous tenderness he ended the kiss, leaving her numb and shaken. His finger came up to smooth her lower lip, and dazed, she stared up into his warm, cider-colored eyes, trying in vain to draw air into her lungs.
And then she found her voice.
“Holy sh—”
He laughed, and drove an unsteady hand through his tousled curls. “’Pon my soul, you do funny things to a man’s heart,” he murmured, laying his cheek atop her silky hair. “Best, I think, not to linger here, lest we end up in a situation we’ll both regret. I’d love to go tour my new schooner, and I’d love her builder’s daughter to accompany me. What do you say, Miss Moyrra? Will you do me the honor?”
Chapter 8
“Get your bloody hands off me, you stinking rebel filth!”
His white waistcoat, breeches, and stockings were now gray with grime and his once fine uniform was torn in a dozen places. But the pride and arrogance with which Captain Richard Crichton had worn that uniform were intact—even after three months of confinement in this hellhole of a prison ship anchored in Boston Harbor.
That the British counterparts of this prison ship were supposed to be even worse mattered not to Crichton. He’d been mocked and taunted by his American jailors, fed putrid pork and water so foul that he’d had to strain it through his teeth just to get it down, and moldy biscuit crawling with weevils. But that was nothing compared to the humiliation they’d made him suffer, and in front of his own officers and men, too. They’d torn the buttons from his coat that proclaimed his seniority as captain; they’d ripped the epaulets from his shoulders and the buckles from his shoes; they’d even taken his fine gold-laced hat and paraded up and down the ship, laughing at his rage and damning the king and all who served him.
Bloody bastards.
And it was all the fault of Brendan Jay Merrick.
Today Crichton was being exchanged for American prisoners of war, but he wasn’t one to let bygones be bygones. Oh, he’d get even with Merrick. He’d go back to Sir Geoffrey, get command of another ship, and make Merrick pay for the poor treatment and humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of the Americans.
Angrily he flung off his jailors’ hands as they herded him abovedecks, vowing to get revenge.
Captain Richard Crichton always made good his vows.
###
If Britannia thought she already had enough troubles with her rebellious colonies—1778 had marked the official French entry into the conflict—she was soon to find that those troubles had only just begun. Forced by the French involvement into what some called a world war, Britain was hard pressed to protect her coasts from a possible invasion by her old enemy; keep up her strength in the West Indies, where both she and France held possessions; and subdue the insubordinate Americans with a fleet that was already spread far too thin to be completely effective.
While the few ships that made up the American Continental navy surpassed those turned out in British yards in both quality and design, they were poorly officered, and the caliber of most of their commanders fell short of that of the ships themselves. Such was not the case, however, with the American privateers. Like clouds of hornets, they swarmed out of their nests—Salem, Beverly, Newburyport, and Portsmouth—hiding in coves and inlets, hunting in “wolf packs,” and preying upon British shipping whenever the opportunity arose. They stole supplies and munitions destined for British troops and rerouted them to Washington’s forces. They armed everything from whaleboats to fishing schooners to fine frigates. They harried and harassed England, created panic around her coasts, and drove insurance on her merchant ships out of control.
Their names were anathema to British shipping and Admiralty alike: the plucky John Paul Jones in his Ranger out of Portsmouth, New Hampshire; Silas Talbot, sailing from Providence, Rhode Island; Hardy in the General Hancock; Haraden in the General Pickering; Nathaniel Tracy and Matthew Ashton from Newburyport. They were men with gri
t and guts and valor, and their tough little ships were their equal in every way.
And now, swinging proudly at her cable in the ice-choked waters of the Merrimack was a sharp new schooner, with topsails furled on gleaming yards, black hull reflecting on the rippling river, sharply raked masts reaching into a sky that blazed with winter sun.
Kestrel.
On the day her windlass was fitted and the last of her rigging strung, a jubilant Ephraim Ashton sent word to her commander, still up in Portsmouth, that she was ready for sea, and issued an invitation for him and his sister to stay at his home in Newburyport for as long as it pleased them. Mira, trying to be hospitable, issued her own invitation for Brendan’s sister to learn how to ride at Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship. Perhaps, they both added, the good captain would consider making Newburyport his home port?
Exactly one week later, Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, vacating the house he and his sister had rented in Portsmouth, arrived in town, trunk snugged under his arm, ditty bag slung over his shoulder, and a jaunty smile lighting his handsome face.
When the word came that the captain was back, Mira would have been hard pressed to know whether it was Father’s order that she meet the stage, or her own admitted eagerness to see Brendan again—and his expression when he laid eyes on the schooner—that sent her barreling down the frozen High Street on Rigel at a speed that surpassed dangerous. Her intentions were good, really they were.
It was not her fault that she never did get to meet the stagecoach as it came over the ferry. As Rigel thundered down High Street, lopped off the corner of Fish Street, and charged toward the waterfront at breakneck speed, she saw the ferry just coming across the river.
And that wasn’t all she saw.
Merchant ships and privateers tied up at the wharves, their bowsprits stabbing far out over weathered dock planking that was patchy with ice.
A boy crouched in their long shadows, hunched down on his heels cleaning fish and tossing the scraps into the half-frozen river.
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