“What are you doing?” I exclaimed, rushing to Johnny’s side.
Grant shook Johnny awake and pressed the weapon to his temple. Johnny woke with a sharp cry of pain, sweat beading on his forehead as he took in Grant’s glare and the barrel pointed right at his face.
“What? What?” Johnny stammered.
“Lieutenant Brighton,” Grant growled. “Can you hold a quill?”
“Can I what?”
Grant grabbed Johnny by the shirt, the pistol digging into his flesh. “I said. Can you. Hold. A quill?”
“Yes?” Johnny nodded, his eyes wide. “Yes, I can, sir.”
Grant released Johnny and placed the quill and paper in his hands. “Mary, fetch that book over there.”
Startled at the sound of my Christian name on his lips, I grabbed one of McGregor’s naturalist tomes from his bookshelf and slid it over Johnny’s lap.
“You will write exactly as I tell you,” Grant said. “You deviate one letter, and I will make sure you suffer. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”
The quill trembled in Johnny’s fingers. He winced, delirious from pain, but he dipped the writing instrument in the inkpot Grant held out to him. “Ready sir.”
“Hold this, Mary.” He stretched the inkpot over the bed, and I gripped it in my palm, nodding.
“I, the Earl of Dunraven Jonathon Brighton do hereby bequeath all my lands and titles to my legally wedded wife Mary Brighton, nee O’Malley.”
Johnny hesitated, the quills scratching a jagged line across the parchment.
“Is something wrong, Lieutenant?”
Johnny’s glazed eyes stared up at Grant. “It’s just that we’re not legally married, and the estate is—”
Grant pressed his hand into his wound and Johnny cried out in agony. He bit his tongue as he took in the Captain’s face flushed with rage. “If you cannot do right by your country, at least you will do right by this woman.” He called over his shoulder. “McGregor!”
The Surgeon came to his side in an instant. “Sir?”
“I need you to witness a marriage.”
McGregor nodded.
I blinked, shaking my head, the inkpot trembling in my hands, spilling black dots on the stained sheets below.
“Lieutenant Brighton,” Grant hissed. “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Johnny’s eyes bugged out of his skull, settling on me. “Mary?”
My mouth gaped open, my heart pounding, cold sweat beading down my back.
Grant cocked his pistol. “I said, do you take this woman?”
“Y-yes?” He trembled, emitting short panting breaths.
The Captain turned to me, his blue eyes boring through me. “And do you take this worthless traitorous fool for your husband?”
The word caught in my throat, and I fisted the sheet in my hands, blinking back tears.
“I…”
His shoulders shook with a vicious rage. “Do you take this man, Mary?”
“No!”
Grant lowered his pistol, his face twisted in confusion.
“I don’t take him. I don’t love him,” I whispered, rising to my feet. “I love you.”
“Mary?” Johnny coughed and groaned from what felt like a thousand miles away. All I could see was Grant’s face, my captain, my commander.
My love.
“You love…me?” he said in a soft voice.
“I do. And I’m a romantic fool for it.” I shook my head, meeting his gaze. “But I’m in love with you. Aye.”
He made to reach for me, but Johnny’s hand clamped down on mine, pulling me toward his bed.
“Please,” he gasped. “Marry me. Just say yes.” Blood trickled from his mouth, sweat bursting from his brow from a fever. “I’m dying, and…Dunraven is yours. It has always been yours.”
I glanced back at Grant, and he nodded.
I kneeled down beside Johnny, clasping his hand tighter. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” He lifted his eyes up to the Captain. “Marry us.”
I let out a long exhale, sweeping Johnny’s soaked hair from his forehead, watching as Johnny finally signed away Dunraven to me. Maybe I deserved it, and maybe I didn’t. But that land and the people who lived there needed better than a man so misguided, so untrustworthy to throw it all away on the promises of a petty tyrant. Perhaps Napoleon could have made a difference for the Irish, but in the end, he was no better than a bastard king, drunk with power and his own manly self-importance. Nay. Ireland needed her own people to raise her up. Not Napoleon, and definitely not the Johnny Brightons of the world. If I could bring the land back to life, build a school, provide opportunities for the people of Dunraven, who knew what seeds I would sow through my efforts? Perhaps I couldn’t bring Ireland its freedom, but I could find a way to bring change to my own scraggly little sheep-filled corner of the world. I could do one small thing. Maybe that was all any of us could ever do.
I looked at Captain Grant as he continued to outline Johnny’s will with the thoroughness of a professionally trained lawyer, and I thought about what he had done, in spite of his low birth and struggles. Perhaps he forced Johnny to write this note because he felt indebted to me, for all the pleasure I gave to him, or perhaps he did it because he wanted more from me, from my body. Yet, when I glanced up at his blazing blue eyes, so set and determined, I knew his reasons lay deeper than all that remained between us.
He commanded Johnny not because he wanted something from me, but because he wanted something for me. Driven by the same fire, he could offer me this one possibility for something better. Something more. And in that moment, I knew regardless of how I felt about Dunraven, about Ireland, I would never more part from this man. Not for hundreds of acres of earth, not for my birthright, not even for the memory of my poor lost mother. We would find our way in this world together, by land or by sea. We would find our way because we would will it so.
Grant signed the final will as a witness, and then without missing a beat, folded up the parchment, placed it in my hands, and finished the marriage sacrament. The ceremony was short, and at the end, Grant took out another piece of paper and asked for our signatures. McGregor scribbled out his name as a witness. It all took a few minutes, but then it was done.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Grant nodded. “I must go now. I would have you assist McGregor in the surgery. I will need a full report on our casualties to send to the Admiral.”
Johnny cried out again, and I rushed to his side. Blood had soaked through his bandages, so I changed them, tears stinging my eyes as I took in the full extent of his stomach wounds. Intestines, milky white and purple, peeked through his obliterated flesh, and I did my best to clean out the wound. McGregor passed me a small vial of laudanum, and I slipped some down Johnny’s throat to calm him. He thrashed for a few minutes, and then he fell into a peaceful sleep.
The rest of the day I spent by the surgeon’s side. I went through two aprons, but finally, late in the night the surgery quieted, patients separated by those who had a chance and those who were beyond saving.
“Ye should get some sleep,” McGregor said, patting me on the arm while I sat by Johnny’s side.
I flinched at his touch. “Why did you betray me?” I hissed.
McGregor looked taken aback and then he stared down at his blood-stained hands, wringing them in a stray bunch of gauze. “I have served with the Captain for near twenty years. I wanted to protect him.”
My legs trembled from exhaustion, but I rose to standing, staring up at the slight Surgeon. “I told you about my mother in confidence. Why wouldn’t you go to Grant first?”
“Because he would do anything to save ye.” He looked me up and down. “And so he did.”
I shook my head. “He didn’t save me. Lady Catherine did.”
He raised his eyebrows and turned away. “So he would have the world believe.”
Following him, I lingered by his desk, watching him scratc
h some notes into an aging ledger. “What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged, cleaning off his spectacles before resuming his notes. “Ask Grant about it.”
…
A gentle hand clutched my shoulder, and I snapped awake.
“Shh…Mary,” Grant’s voice called in the darkness. “It’s me.”
He lit a candle and the surgery sprang to life with shadows as he pulled a chair up next to me. “How is he?”
I placed my hand on Johnny’s forehead and had to pull my fingers away at the scorching heat radiating from his body. “Not good. McGregor said it’s any time now.”
Wringing a piece of gauze out in a basin, I scrubbed Johnny’s brow of sweat and grime. His face looked so grey, so drawn, and my heart ached for the boy I once knew. The boy who rescued my kitten from the well, who threw rocks at Jacob Connelly and taught me to ride a horse and fish in the stream. His eyelids fluttered, and I wondered what he dreamed about: Napoleon’s vision for a new world? Or the green hills of Dunraven. I hoped it was the latter.
“He was my first love, you know,” I said after a long pause. “I suppose such things are always doomed.” I whirled on Grant and took his hand. “Promise me no one will know what he did. Please let him die with some dignity.”
Grant rubbed my palm with his thumb. “I cannot promise no one will know, but I can promise you in my report to the Admiral I will say how Johnny worked as a double agent, sabotaging the French fleet from within. I will tell him how he bravely cut the rigging, allowing us to board. That is…” He looked up to me, his eyes glittering dark like obsidian in the candlelight. “That is, if that is what you wish.”
I nodded. “’Tis.” I stared at Johnny for a moment, my heart breaking for him. “He was always so easily seduced, you know, but he had a true heart. You must believe me.”
“I do.” The Captain put his arm around me, and we sat like that until sunrise, until Johnny’s body rattled his last breath and he lay in peace.
Chapter Twenty-Four
My fists clenched as Grant struck my back again with the flogger. The delicious ache in my core grew, and I writhed against the ropes suspending me from the floor. The Captain had given up his cabin for the poor widowed Lady Mary Brighton for propriety’s sake, but it didn’t keep him from sneaking in at night on occasion, nor did her mourning weeds keep him from doling out stern discipline when required.
His hands grazed my hips as he pulled me close, his erection throbbing against my backside. I twisted my body to envelop him, but he merely whipped me harder, the sting making me wet as I stifled my cries in the flesh of my arm.
“I’m going to polish this sweet backside of yours until you learn to polish my boots, Mary,” he growled. With all pretense of cabin boy gone, nobody seemed to care that the Lady Brighton kept herself busy taking care of the good captain. And if anyone noticed the resemblance she had to the young wastrel Michael O’Brien, they kept it to themselves. A true testament to Grant’s loyalty amongst the crew. As for the Admiral, after the events of the battle and Johnny’s death, he cleared my name, and I became the poor widow of a great hero of the British Empire. It was in all the papers.
“Bollocks your boots,” I gasped between slaps of the flogger, flashing him a mischievous grin.
The Captain grunted, untying my ropes and throwing me mercilessly onto the bed. He collapsed over me, grabbing my wrists with one hand and pressing his fingers into me with the other. “Tell me who you serve, Mary,” he breathed, his hand slick with my desire. “Tell me.”
“I serve you!” I cried, my hips rising, searching for satisfaction, release.
“That’s right.” He groaned, burying himself inside me. He tilted back, slamming into me again, harder this time. His rhythm tantalized me, and I longed to press my fingers into his hips, force him to stay deep inside me, but his hand held my wrists firm against the bed.
“Please, give it to me, Captain,” I cried. “Give it to me now.”
He thrust harder and harder, with my legs wrapping around his waist, locking at the ankles so I could take him all in. Our pleasure rose together with the quickness of our breath, the pounding of our hearts filling my head. Dear God, how that man brought me to the very roof of heaven. Before I knew it, his warmth, his strength, his love wrapped all around me, and I screamed inside his mouth, his tongue darting between my teeth, tasting the sound of my cries with every kiss.
We lay there panting for a long time, wrapped up in his cool sheets. Outside the cabin, the bustle of the docks intermingled with the raucous cries of seagulls and the gentle lapping of the waves as they brushed against the hold of the ship. I breathed in Grant’s wonderful scent, shoe polish, cedar, leather, the sea. I wanted to wake up surrounded by that smell every day for the rest of my life. But the familiar tug of home called to me, and my heart splintered.
I glanced over on the nightstand where lay a letter to my da, relating everything that had transpired since I left Dunraven.
Well, almost everything.
I also provided clear instructions for raising those terrible huts and providing proper cottages. I also informed him of where to find my blueprints for the school and how to proceed with developing the new curriculum. As for the rest, he was a clever man, my da. He could sort it out. He had been doing it his whole life, and now with the Brightons out of the way, he could manage the estate in the way he always wanted.
Grant nipped my ear as his hand swept across my thigh then up across my waist before settling protectively over my breast.
“I’ll need to go into town today to mail this letter,” I said.
Grant’s hand brushed against my cheek, and he kissed my forehead. “My solicitor can take care of everything for you.”
I nodded, nuzzling into his hand. “I know, but there’s just…so much to do.”
Looking away from his piercing blue eyes, I rolled beneath him, sitting up on the edge of the bed to fumble with my stockings.
“But surely as a steward, your father could take care of everything. If he’s anything like you, he must be a competent man.”
“Oh, aye, he is, surely. He will be overjoyed. It’s what he always wanted.” My chest tightened, and I wiped away the hot tears welling up in my eyes. I missed him so much, but the heart of the matter was, in Grant’s bed, Dunraven felt like some far-off dream, some other life lived by a stranger. I loved the sea, the military life, the feel of a musket in my hand, the satisfying sigh of Grant settling into sleep as his arms wrapped around me. That’s what felt right.
“Mary…” Grant’s fingers danced across my spine and I shivered. “There is something else we should do in town today.”
I glanced over my shoulder.
Grant slid off the bed and kneeled on the floor between my knees. He took both of my hands and kissed them tenderly. “I will not live without you.”
“You’re the one who rescued me, back in Port Royal,” I blurted out. “It wasn’t Lady Catherine. It was you. You set off the explosions, didn’t you?”
Grant looked up, his eyes bright. “Just as you saved me before the French fleet could board us. Of course it was me. We are of one mind, Mary. You must know that.” He searched the ground for his jacket, which I had discarded earlier in a state of lustful duress. Digging inside, his hand latched onto something, and he pulled out a small box.
“Oh, Richard,” I whispered.
“I wanted to save this moment for something perhaps more romantic, but I see no better time than now.” He stared hard into my eyes. “Mary, from the moment I found you hiding in my cabin, I knew you were a woman of remarkable bravery. You belonged to another man, but I wanted you for my own. Perhaps that is my gravest sin. Yet, I would commit a thousand more to have you share my bed tonight and every night for the rest of my life.”
He opened the box, and an emerald ring sparkled inside. Gasping for breath and trembling, I closed my eyes, the rent in my heart tearing deeper and deeper.
“I know you love your hom
e, but I beg of you. Stay with me. Serve with me aboard my ship. Be my wife. See the world with me. And when this war is over and all our adventures have ended, let us return to your happy, haunted castle and make little green-eyed babies. Please, Mary. Please tell me you will say yes.”
The word bubbled up in my throat like a fountain, and before I could reconsider, it exploded in a breathless whisper. “Yes!”
After we made love again, we curled up together, the light of day falling behind us. I held up my hand in the piercing orange glow of early evening, letting the emerald throw light green sparkles across my fingertips. “I thought you said you didn’t allow women on your ship, Captain.”
“There is an exception for everything,” he whispered, kissing the tips of my ears. “And you are quite exceptional, Lady Brighton.”
“Just Mary, please.”
“Not boy?”
A burst of warmth flooded my body. “Only when I’m especially naughty, sir.”
Grant swiped at my backside playfully. “Which is only every day, my little sea urchin.” He sighed, propping himself up on his elbow. “I am sure we can find a way to keep you preoccupied while we are at sea. McGregor could definitely use an assistant.”
I shook my head vigorously. “You know I make a better powder monkey than a nurse.”
Grant trapped me beneath his body, caging me in with his hands and pouring kisses down on my chest. “Oh no, my darling. You get anywhere near a cannon, and you will get the hiding of your life.” He whirled me over and slapped me hard on the bum, and the sting forced a long, low moan from my lips. Placing a soft kiss on my skin, his fingers traced up the small of my back, powerful and demanding.
“That’s what you think, Captain…” I purred, arching my spine against his firm hand. “My captain…”
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Author’s Note
The 1798 uprising was one of the most violent events in Irish history. While English forces quickly quelled the surge of revolutionary fervor, the Irish would feel its aftershocks for generations. Historians estimate the death toll of in the tens of thousands. After the rising, greedy English landlords like Lord Brighton continued to oppress the Irish people with exorbitant rents, perpetuating a system of economic and political disenfranchisement that would eventually find its culmination in the genocide of the Great Hunger of the Irish potato famine (an Gorta Mór). For my character, Mary O’Malley, an Irish Catholic and a woman, her economic prospects would be few. However, I hope Mary reveals the incredible tenacity that eventually led to Irish Independence over a century after the 1798 uprising. While Mary could only do so much, I like to pretend her reforms in Dunraven helped fuel that fire.
The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines) Page 23