Cherished Moments

by Anita Mills

  “What’s this,” he drawled, “a Hamilton without a cutting sally?”

  She had no clever reply, but thought of a way to take the wind from his sails. She began to whistle.

  “Avast that noise!”

  Ignoring him and the superstition she provoked, she strolled in a half circle behind him, warbling her best. She knew she was being rude, but couldn’t help herself.

  “I’m warning you, Lily. Cease this instant or you’ll have a gale on us before sunset.”

  So, he was subject to sailors’ tales. “Admit that you came to Arran wearing a lovelock.”

  He stared into the rigging, his neck muscles corded with tension, his too-long hair blowing in the breeze. She started whistling again.

  “Crossjack will throw you overboard. The cook will refuse to light a fire. We will have to eat ship’s biscuit and drink brine water for a week.”

  He looked so discomfited she knew she should retreat, and she would, but not just yet. “Who is buried in the grave?”

  “I’m a sailor, not a seer. So leave off, Lily.”

  With a sinking dread she watched the first mate cut a length of rope. Working quickly, he tied what she knew was a square knot to ward off the gale winds her whistling might bring. As he looped the knotted rope onto a spoke of the helm, Lily ceased the torment. Crossjack didn’t deserve ill treatment, only the captain did.

  The next morning, Lily stood in the doorway of the master cabin. They had just docked in Wexford, Ireland, and Hugh, as she was beginning to think of the captain, had promised to take her ashore to the May Fair. Circumstances dictated that she refuse. Since he’d kissed her two nights before, Lily had tried to keep her distance. It wasn’t that she feared his seduction. She was frightened by her own weakness. He had roused a need in her that neither time nor distance had filled.

  Like a specter, the memory of the kiss stood between them. They conversed civilly, but Lily felt they were only marking time, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead for them troubled her.

  He could rebuff her until the king scorned his many mistresses, but she would continue to describe his annual visits to Arran.

  “You have a fanciful imagination, Lily,” he had said earlier in the day.

  Perhaps, but she also had irrefutable proof.

  Now, shoring up her courage, she stepped into the cabin they shared. Her hammock still hung in place, a constant reminder that she must keep herself apart from him. He adjusted his cockaded hat, setting it at a jaunty angle. The cockscomb.

  She cleared her throat. “The year I celebrated my sixteenth birthday, you came to Brodick Bay wearing a buff coat tied at the waist with a black sash.”

  As had become his habit in these circumstances, he sighed and gave her a courteous and infuriating smile. “You must have either the eyes of an eagle or you watched through a powerful spyglass to see so much detail as the sash ’round my waist.”

  She had expected his placating tone, and took no offense. Strolling across the room, she delved into her keepsakes. “Not necessarily. ’Twas windy that morn. Your sash caught on the thorns of the rose. When you could not untangle it, you tossed it into the bay with the flowers. I fished it out and laundered it. Here ’tis.”

  His facade of cordiality faded, and for the second time since boarding his ship, Lily sensed a chink in his armor of denial. He swallowed, and his steely gaze moved to the black silk. Then he took it from her.

  “Tell me, Hugh. Who sends you to Arran? Who is buried in the grave?”

  In reply, he gave her a lopsided grin and, holding an end of the sash in each hand, he flipped it over her head. With gentle pressure, he pulled her toward him. Like a child eager for the fair they were about to attend, she went willingly. His eyes burned with an intensity that warmed and chilled her at once. He must have sensed her hesitation, for he bestowed a brotherly kiss on her forehead. “An admirable try, Lily, but unconvincing. Half the gentlemen I know wear sashes like this.”

  Angry and unwilling to concede, she glared at him. “You’re no gentleman.”

  His heated gaze roamed her face and settled on her mouth. “Much more of that, Lily, and I’ll prove you right.”

  For all his nonchalance, he’d given her a warning. Ignore it, her woman’s heart demanded. Step away from him, her dignity said. Obeying the latter, she yanked the scarf from his hands and returned it to her bag.

  Under her breath, she murmured every curse she knew.

  “Come,” he said, as if the portentious exchange had not occurred. “Be of good cheer and I’ll buy you a ribbon at the fair.”

  That did it. “You’re placating me, and I like it not,” she ground out.

  “You’re exciting me, and I like it well.”

  Her insides turned to porridge, and she vacillated between slapping his handsome face and rushing into his arms. Eleven years of waiting and wanting dragged at her scruples. She knew the reasons behind her weakness; she felt as if she’d known him all her life. He knew her not at all, and if she succumbed to his winning ways, she’d be no better than a woman of the streets.

  Pride won out. Mustering good humor, she pulled on her gloves. “I’ll try again, Captain.”

  He chuckled. “Then so will I.”

  If desire were a sound, it was his voice. Mortified at the thought, she stiffened her spine and preceded him off the ship.

  Five minutes into the excursion, the starch went out of her, for the May Fair was all and more than Master Bonaventure had said it would be. Parti-colored stalls and booths marked with fluttering pennons lined the streets of Wexford. Merchants sold everything from Connemara marble to Brian Boru harps.

  Hawkers enticed them to “dunk the duchess,” a sport wherein a fashionably dressed woman sat on a plank suspended over a barrel of water. Spanker pitched a penny to the boothman, then pulled a handle, dropping the pretend duchess into the drink.

  Laughing lads on stilts navigated the busy thoroughfares. Courting couples strolled hand in hand. At every turn she was reminded that spring was in the air.

  On the edge of the fairgrounds, the fletcher harkened them to test their skill at archery. After considerable taunting from the crew, the captain paid tuppence and selected a bow. The target, a board fifty paces away, featured a likeness of the Lord Protector himself. Minutes later, Hugh shot four of five arrows between the eyes of Oliver Cromwell’s image.

  “Take your prize, my lord,” said the fletcher, indicating a selection of scarves, ribbons, and garlands. “Pick a trinket for your lady fair.”

  With a hand on Lily’s elbow, the captain held her there while he made a great show of indecision. From a batch of cloths, he pull out a black scarf and held it before her. “On second thought, not this one. The color is as common as a crow, and much too ordinary for you, Lily.”

  The implication was clear. He was belittling the evidence she’d shown him earlier in the day, because he had no intention of admitting the truth. She’d been a fool to cherish that scarf and attach romantic dreams to the wearer.

  Sadness enveloped her. Feeling foolish, she turned away and moved into the throng of fair-goers.

  Bonaventure appeared beside her. “You are troubled.”

  “He’s a troll,” she murmured, trying desperately not to cry.

  “Oui. Perhaps he has good cause, no?”

  Perhaps he did. In any event, she refused to let Hugh’s stubbornness spoil her fun. Bother it. Bother him. She was in Ireland, a land she had never dreamed of seeing. Nothing would tarnish her day at the May Fair, and if she lived to be one hundred years old, she would never forget how much the captain and his crew had enriched her life.

  Moments later the captain joined them, a garland of daisies in his hand, an apology in his eyes. “For you, my lady.” He put the ring of flowers on her head.

  Lily put dreary thoughts behind her and reveled in the day’s pleasure. By the time they returned to the ship, exhausted and full to their gullets, she hadn’t the will to challenge Hugh. Tomorrow would
come soon enough.

  Standing with her back to the prow, Lily watched Master Bonaventure tack his way north along the Irish coast. The ship’s carpenter played a ballad on his new harp. The reclusive cook leaned against the bulwark and hacked off the tops of fresh carrots and leeks. The sharp smell of the vegetables blended with the salty air.

  Barefoot and wearing canvas breeches, the captain walked the yards, inspecting the rigging.

  Friendliness and compatibility were the order of the day. So happy was Lily, she wondered if she weren’t back in her bed at Hamilton Castle, dreaming this voyage and imagining these people. Please, she prayed, don’t let me awaken.

  With a hand at her brow, she shaded the sun from her eyes and watched the captain descend the mainmast. Once on deck, he stopped near the cook and filched a carrot. Then he approached her, his strides long, his smile easy.

  She felt as blessed as a newly christened babe. “To where do we sail?” she asked.

  Mischief sparkled in his eyes. He crunched the carrot. “What’s this? ’Tis almost noon and you’ve yet to bedevil me with one of your fables.”

  Being honest about his visits had yielded little success, so Lily spun a tale. “Very well. In the spring of seventy-five, you sported an elegant wig.”

  He waved the stub of the carrot for emphasis. “I do not wear wigs.”

  Undaunted, she flowered the tale. “’Twasn’t just any wig, mind you, but a masterpiece of invention—curled at the sides and flowing down your back. Very stylish, Captain.”

  “I hate wigs!”

  “Oh, but you flatter them so.”

  Cool anger smoothed out his features. “I tell you, Lily Hamilton, I’d sooner rake dung than wear a wig.”

  She batted her eyes. “You looked so fashionably handsome, I nearly swooned on the beach and ruined my heavy coat and gloves.”

  “Impossible. ’Twas unseasonably warm in seventy-five and I wore—” He stopped, realizing that she had baited him. Giving her an angry stare that promised retribution, he spat, “We sail to Bangor.”

  Inordinately pleased with herself, Lily clasped her hands. “Splendid. My uncle Seamus plies the Bangor port.”

  The music stopped. The captain towered over her. “Did I say Bangor? I meant Dublin of course.” He glowered. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because my cousin Randolph will most likely be there.”

  Eyes narrowed, fists planted on his hips, he said, “Swear.”

  She summoned her sweetest tone. “On my honor as a…lover of dusted wigs and daisy garlands.”

  Frowning, he cast her a sideways glance. “Your cousin Randolph, you say?”

  “Aye, a ham-fisted fellow with a surly crew. You’d not willingly tangle with that lot.”

  “Crossjack,” Hugh yelled to the mate, who stood near the windlass. “Know you of a Hamilton sailor by the name of Randolph?”

  The mate spat over the side in disgust. “Spawn o’ Satan, so I’ve heard, Cap’n. They say he sleeps with a cat-o’-nines and flogs ’is crew fer pleasure.”

  “Then ’tis best we guard our backs well and conduct our business with haste.”

  They docked in Dublin just before sunset. More troubled than he was willing to let on, Hugh took Lily aside. “I haven’t forgotten what you said about your cousin Randolph. You’ll stay below while we are in port. We won’t be long at our business.”

  Like a contented cat, she lounged on her favorite spot, the windowseat. “Of course.”

  But after the cargo of fine laces and bolts of linen cloth had been loaded, Hugh found his cabin empty and the window open. She’d escaped. Her bag of meager belongings was gone, as was the wilted garland he’d given her at the May Fair. She’d left him.

  Spanker came rushing in. Huffing, he said, “I just come from the Harp ’n’ Hound Tavern, Cap’n. Hamiltons are asking after the Golden Thistle and swearin’ we kidnapped their kinswoman.”

  “Damn!” A passing vessel must have taken notice of them before the carpenter had altered the name of Hugh’s ship.

  “That ain’t all. The best mate o’ the Sea Lion said they’d got Mistress Hamilton back.”

  “What?” He should have been glad to see the last of her, rather than sad for his loss. She was trouble of the kind he’d forsaken Scotland to avoid. “Fare thee well to her,” he grumbled.

  “It ain’t like that, sir.” Now anxious, Spanker ducked beneath the doorway and stalked him. “I strolled past their ship an’ I heard a woman screamin’. ’Twas awful, Cap’n. Sounded like they was fair killin’ her.”

  Hugh’s blood ran cold, then boiled. He’d scouted the Sea Lion earlier in the day and found Randolph Hamilton’s crew sleeping on decks and his vessel in poor repair. The town’s gossips disdained the slothful ship and dreaded her making port.

  Screaming. Hugh ground his teeth.

  “What’ll you do?” Spanker asked.

  “Wake the crew. Tell Master Bonaventure to ready the ship.”

  The big gunner started, banging his head on a ceiling beam. “Ain’t you goin’ after her?”

  Ignoring him, Hugh unlocked his wardrobe and pulled out a black shirt and tunic and a razor-sharp dirk.

  “You canna go alone, Cap’n.”

  “I will.”

  Spanker yanked off his cap and threw it on the floor. “Then you’ll have to be givin’ us all our pay tickets.”

  Hugh exchanged his dress clothing for the dark garments. “Pay tickets?” He laughed without humor and slipped the blade into the lining of his boot. “If I don’t come back, Spanker, the damned bloody ship is yours.”

  “I’m going with you, and there it is.”

  Knowing the man wouldn’t budge, Hugh rethought his plan. “All right. Load three wheel-locks and find Crossjack. I’ll meet you on the gangplank.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. I’ve a bit o’ conversin’ to do with that scurvy Hamilton. A pistol whippin’ should perk up his ears.”

  Ten minutes later they stood on the quay near the Sea Lion. A single lantern on the foredeck illuminated a group of crewmen who’d abandoned their posts to play at dice. The aft deck was empty, the hatch open. With Hugh in the lead, they crept across the darkened deck and tiptoed down the companionway.

  An ominous silence pulsed in the close air. The foul odor of stale urine and sour sweat assaulted his nose. The urge to kill thrummed through him. Taking shallow breaths, he scanned the darkened companionway. Off the narrow hall were four louvered doors. The first two stood open, revealing the unkempt mess and the cluttered navigator’s quarters. Both were empty of men, which Hugh expected, for according to Spanker most of the crew were downing pints at a dockside tavern.

  Of the two remaining doors, the farthest would lead to the captain’s cabin. Bars of light seeped through the slats and onto the floor, which was littered with wilted daisy petals. The trail of flowers stopped before the closer door.

  Hot anger pulsing through him, Hugh knotted his fists to keep from smashing down the door. Moving cautiously, he grasped the knob and was surprised to feel it turn in his damp palm. He eased it open. A smelly candle cast a faint yellow glow throughout the small chamber.

  His heart stopped when he saw her. She lay on her side on the narrow bunk, her hair in tangled disarray. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, the exposed skin abraded.

  Hugh rushed to the bunk and crouched beside her. “Lily?” he whispered.

  She didn’t, couldn’t hear him.

  He pushed her hair out of the way. A bruise the size of a man’s knuckles darkened her jaw and cheek. Her bottom lip was split, and dried blood stained her chin.

  Spanker came up behind him. “Blessed Jesus!” he hissed.

  “Who’s there?” shouted someone from the master cabin.

  Crossjack peered over Hugh’s shoulder. “Me an’ Spanker’ll pay your respects to her cousin,” he said. “He won’t be siring another Hamilton anytime soon.”

  “Or layin’ a hand to a woman,” Spanker put in. “Not when we’re do
ne with him.”

  The two men moved quietly from the room.

  “Lily?” When she did not stir, Hugh touched her neck, but his hand was shaking so badly he couldn’t find her pulse.

  Over the fear ringing in his ears, he heard thuds and grunts from the captain’s cabin. Desperate to get her to safety, he scooped her into his arms. Limp and light as goosedown, she made no sound. Hugh whispered a prayer for her safety and headed for the door.

  Crossjack was waiting. “Poor lassie,” he crooned, patting her head.

  “You lead the way,” Hugh told him. “Spanker, stay behind me. Let’s away, lads.”

  “I hate men.”

  She could have cursed Hugh to hell in a haywagon and he wouldn’t have cared. He still felt euphoric with relief. Somehow this lovely daughter of his enemy had worked her way into his heart. She was angry now, a very good sign.

  “Even me?” he said.

  “Oh, nay.” Her brown eyes glowed with fondness. “How did you find me?”

  Wanting to hold her and never let go, yet knowing it was wrong, he strove for lightness. “Well, lassie, ’twas a puzzle to be sure.”

  “But—” She smiled, then winced. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Aye. How do you feel?”

  Hesitantly she touched her cheek. “Awful. How do I look?”

  Far too at home in my bed, he wanted to say. “Randolph paid a price. Spanker and Crossjack saw to that.”

  “When I first came aboard your ship, I thought them ruffians. I was wrong, and I should have listened to you.” Her voice broke and tears pooled in her eyes. “I never thought Randolph would hurt me. We played peevers and tag as children. We learned to ride the same horse.”

  Hugh’s heart went out to her. She had been sheltered on that island, much the same as the women of Ardrossan were shielded from the cruelty of their MacDonnel men. Hugh was always surprised at the changes in his own father. The chieftain of the MacDonnels could wage war for weeks, spilling Hamilton blood and pirating their property, but when he returned home he became the laughing, loving husband and kindly sire.