The air was filled with the smell of salt water and tidal flats and in the distance, a flock of ducks winged their way over an inlet, quacking. Mercy, sick with worry, looked everywhere for the wagon in which she’d last seen her mother and little brother. Lord Dorian remained silent and stony-faced behind her.
It took forever to fight their way through the crowds of militia companies and finally reach the trajectory of Boston Neck. The narrow spit of land separated the town proper from the mainland with old fortifications, salt marshes on either side, and a ditch, dug several months before under the orders of General Gage, that filled with salt water during low tide, thus making Boston itself an island. At the moment it resembled a no-man’s land. A gate stood near a wooden guardhouse and from the latter a yawning sentry emerged, his white cross-belts gleaming in the early morning light and his eyes wary with suspicion. At his appearance, the encamped militia sent up a great amount of jeers and shouting, a storm of abuse that the sentry, his face rigid and his eyes nervous, did his best to ignore.
“Town’s closed. Governor’s orders.” He jerked his head to indicate they go back the way they’d come. “Can’t let anyone through.”
“I must get to Boston.”
“What are you, deaf? I said the town’s closed.”
Dorian lowered his voice so that the militia, milling around just behind him, could not hear. “I am Lord Dorian de Wolfe, captain of HMS Thames and under orders from Sir Geoffrey Lloyd. I demand you let us pass.”
The sentry eyed Dorian with undisguised scorn. “Ye don’t look like a lord, and ye don’t look like one of Sir Geoffrey’s captains, either.” He spat in the dirt at his feet. “And what would the Sea Wolfe be doing away from his ship, dressed in civilian clothes and carting around a lady?”
“Conducting Sir Geoffrey’s business.”
“Which is?”
“None of yours, I’m afraid.”
“And who is this woman?”
Dorian noted several nearby militiamen eying him suspiciously, one of them already reaching for a musket leaning against a nearby elm and heading their way. “A good subject of the king who’s an unfortunate casualty of the fighting. She is under my protection. Now let us pass, or I can assure you I will have a word with General Gage myself. Do I make myself clear?”
The sentry recognized authority when he encountered it. Lord Dorian’s threat, along with his imposing physical size, was enough to cause him to grudgingly stand aside.
“Not liking this none, I’m not,” he muttered balefully as he opened the gate to let them pass.
“You don’t have to like it. Good day to you, sir.”
“Good day.”
They continued on. Soldiers in red coats were everywhere, and the town buzzed with talk of what had happened out in Lexington and Concord the day before, of the rebels surrounding the town on three sides and growing in number by the hour, of what General Gage would do next to punish the traitors for their actions against the King’s troops. Civilians were here and there, grim-faced and nervous, hurrying past as they headed north through the small, narrow streets.
Most businesses appeared to be closed, but a small store across from the town Common had a sign out front that swung in the wind. A young woman with dark hair and green eyes stood on the threshold of its open door, looking anxiously out toward the troops whose tents were set up all over the wet and muddied earth. She turned as they pulled up in front of the store, her face relaxing in recognition and relief.
“Lord Dorian. Thank God.” She hurried toward them and Mercy, inexplicably, felt a twisting knot in her gut that had nothing to do with the fact that she was hungry. “Do you bring any news? I’ve heard terrible things, and I’m worried sick.”
Mercy kept her face perfectly still as Dorian transferred the reins to her hands and slid down from behind her. So he knew this pretty young woman, who gave Mercy a passing glance and then looked back toward the Common, quietly wringing her hands.
“Juliet,” he said, removing his hat and bowing over her hand. “May we speak inside?”
The knot in Mercy’s gut tightened some more. The other woman glanced at her, her eyes registering something like panic, and without another word she led Dorian, still favoring his ankle, into the shop. Moments later, a bitter wailing issued forth and Dorian, his face grim, emerged. His eyes had gone very dark, almost brown, and as he swung himself back up behind Mercy she thought his face might have been carved in stone.
“Let’s go,” he said tightly.
The woman’s piercing wails followed them as they moved down the street, ringing in Mercy’s ears. Her heart swelled with pity. She looked down at Sally’s copper-colored mane. “Bad news, I take it.”
“The worst a man can be called upon to deliver.” His voice grew harsh. “Just goes to show that you need to seize an opportunity whilst you have it. That if you find the person you love, don’t waste any time apart, because you never know if this day will be your last together.”
Mercy flinched. Behind her, Lord Dorian’s body was as hard and unyielding as a marble statue.
“What do you mean?”
“It was my sad duty to inform that poor girl that the love of her life perished in the fighting at Concord.” Mercy turned, and found his eyes to be direct and accusing. “That dead officer against the stone wall near your house? He was my friend Lord Charles de Montforte of the Fourth Foot. A fine captain. An exemplary soldier.” His mouth tightened. “And her betrothed.”
Chapter 13
Her betrothed.
Dead now, a lifetime of possibility and joy, of children and memories, trials and triumphs, wiped out in a heartbeat. A future that would never be. A man who would live on only in the heart and memories of the woman who had loved him.
That other woman was much on Mercy’s mind as they fought their way through streets crowded with soldiery, horses and carts. The smell of salt water filled the air. Fish, horse dung, chimney smoke and tidal flats, breweries and sewers, tar and mud. Her senses reeled. A gull winged overhead and just to the east the harbor glowed blue and cold, ruffled by a light chop. Several warships stood at anchor, ports open, and Mercy wondered which was Lord Dorian’s.
“Where does your aunt live?” he asked curtly.
“Just off Dock’s Square, at the corner of Wing’s Lane.”
He said nothing more, and Mercy felt her heart starting to pound. Her gut churned with emotion. A sense of desperation filled her, bordering on panic. Soon now, he would deposit her at Aunt Lizzy’s house, where she hoped to find her missing family. He would bow stiffly, bid her goodbye, and he would leave.
She would never see him again.
In her mind’s eye, she remembered again the handsome blond captain lying dead against the stone wall, heard again the sound of his betrothed’s anguished wails behind them.
Stop him.
Don’t let him go.
If you let him go, you’ll be throwing away a future that that woman will never have.
She squeezed her eyes shut, aware, oh so aware, of the velvet pouch against her hip. A pirate’s treasure, which was all that would sustain her and her family now that they had nothing left. A pirate’s treasure, which would never be welcomed by a man who had tried to distance himself from his piratical ancestor with everything he did. Everything he believed.
All too soon, they had arrived at the neat house of weathered brown clapboard and Dorian was swinging down. Reaching up to steady her as she dismounted, his hand searing her through her short-jacket. No, her mind screamed. No, this is too soon, it can’t end like this! He tethered Sally to a nearby hitching post, offered his elbow and led Mercy up the steps. He knocked sharply at the door.
“Dorian, I—”
Her mother herself opened the door and the moment was lost. “Mercy! Oh, thank God you’ve made it, we were all so worried!”
“Mercy!”
Elias pushed his way past her to throw himself into Mercy’s arms. Aunt Lizzy appeared from th
e parlor, brows rising as she spotted Dorian standing stiffly behind her niece. An excited babble of relief and joy was lost on Mercy, whose panic was rising as she sensed Dorian retreating behind her. And then Elias let her go and ran past her. He ran to the tall, imposing naval captain who hugged the boy, said something to him, then turned smartly on one heel and walked away.
Past Sally, still tethered to the hitching post.
Past the little gate and fence.
Out into the stream of people hustling past, without a backward glance.
And then he was gone.
* * *
“It’s about time, Captain de Wolfe! Where the bloody hell have you been? Damn you, I sent you out into the countryside to quietly fetch my nephew back, not to lark around with the locals, not to disappear with a young woman for hours on end, not to get someone’s house set on fire, and not to fail in keeping my nephew away from this ... this female. But you did fail, Dorian, and I expected better of you!”
“My apologies, sir.” Dorian stood just inside the admiral’s great cabin, his cocked hat under one arm and the sunlight coming in through the stern windows striking gold off the buttons of his uniform coat. Despite the drubbing he was getting from the admiral, his mind was far away, back again in a hearth-side chair talking to Mercy Payne, in a warm, dry hayloft as they’d kissed with a passionate intensity, on a horse with her tiny body wrapped safely in his arms. And while it was good to be back in uniform, good to feel a deck under his feet, the tide under the keel, the familiar sway and rock of a ship at anchor, it wasn’t good enough.
He’d had a taste of paradise.
Nothing would ever compare.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Captain De Wolfe?”
“I have no excuses, sir, except to say that I am better served clearing the coast of rebel smuggling than retrieving errant young swains from a hostile interior.”
The admiral wasn’t done with him. “I told you to be discreet. I expected you to be discreet, and now the entire populace knows the damned Sea Wolfe was out there in their midst and given that that foolish young chit ran of with my nephew and the alarm was raised, the secret is out. Gage is probably laughing is damned arse off!”
Dorian rather thought that Gage didn’t have much to laugh about at all, given what had happened out in Concord and the surrounding towns, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue.
“You made a total cock-up of this, Dorian! What the bloody devil is wrong with the lot of you? Captain Lord is missing, ran out to Menotomy I’m told, in search of a woman. George showed up here this morning with some silly chit, then disappeared, leaving a note saying they were eloping. And then there’s you! At least your bloody hi-jinks don’t involve a woman! Or do they? By God, I’ve a mind to send the entire lot of you back to England!”
Dorian remained standing, the tirade washing over him like waves on a beach.
Mercy. He could not stop thinking of her. Could not get the feel of her soft, feminine body out of his mind, her name off his tongue, the memory of her dark, sparkling eyes and lustrous brown hair out of his thoughts.
She had refused him.
Nothing Sir Geoffrey said or did could wound him as much as her rejection.
“—Which is a damned fine idea, come to think of it! Parliament needs to hear about what went on out there yesterday and they need to hear it from us, not the damned rabble who fired on our troops because you know as well as I do that they’ll come up with some devilish propaganda to try and win sympathy from London! ’Twill be a race to see who gets to England first with their version of events, them or us! I advise you to make your ship ready and provision whilst there’s still food to be had here in this town, Dorian!”
“Sir?”
“Don’t be obtuse! Aren’t you listening to me? Have you heard a single damned word I’ve uttered?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve heard every one—”
“Then you ought to understand that you’ll be leaving for England immediately! Now get out of my sight, I wish to be left alone! The lot of you are a plague upon my senses, damn you!”
Having been dismissed, Dorian exited the great cabin, donned his hat, and made his way topside. He wished he could remember everything the cantankerous old admiral had said. Was rather glad he couldn’t.
Mercy.
He paused at the rail of the great flagship, his gaze moving past the nearby waterfront with its long wharves and taverns, its vessels of every size and description, and to the town beyond. Somewhere out there was Mercy Payne. Pain lanced his heart and he clenched his hands in despair, willing himself not to think about her. Moments later he was piped over the side, and as he descended the tumblehome of the great ship, he was rather glad of one thing, and one thing only.
He was being sent home. Away from Boston. Away from Mercy Payne.
Maybe it was for the best.
* * *
Dorian returned to HMS Thames, saluted the quarterdeck, and went below to his cabin.
It had only been three days since he’d last seen it, but with all that had happened since, it felt more like a month.
He eyed his bunk with longing and pulled out the chair at his desk. Summoning the purser, they made a list of what they’d need for the return voyage—salted fish, barrels of pork and beef, fresh water, dried peas, flour, oats, chickens, butter, and as much fruit, either fresh or preserved, as could be found. He met with the boson and his first lieutenant and finally the ship’s carpenter to ensure the vessel was up to a fast transatlantic run, and weary to the bone and depressed beyond words, finally reached for the bottle of port he’d been saving.
He poured a glass and sat back, thinking of the last spirits he’d imbibed. Cool ale brewed by a pretty provincial and enjoyed by the firelight with her. A world away, now. Just a memory. He shut his eyes in pain.
He was just lifting the glass to his mouth when the stamp of the sentry’s musket outside brought his head up.
“Captain Merrick to see you, sir!”
“Send him in.”
The door opened and there was Brendan Merrick, always youthful, always grinning, always able to bring a spot of cheer into a situation no matter how bleak, how dire, it looked to be.
“Faith, Dorian, you look miserable.”
“Nice to see you too, friend.” Dorian nodded toward the other chair. “Sit down. Have some port.”
“You know I don’t drink.”
“Then I’ll imbibe enough for both of us, as God knows I need it.” He topped up his glass. “It’s late. What brings you here?”
“Oh, just some rumors making the rounds. Heard you had yourself a bit of an adventure, eh?”
“You could say that.”
“Word travels fast, you know. If you want something to get around, tell a sailor. I hope Sir Geoffrey wasn’t too hard on you.”
“No harder than I deserved, really.”
The Irishman put his hat down on the table, pulled out the chair across from Dorian, and cocking his head to the side, regarded him thoughtfully. “You do your ancestry a disservice, Dorian. Really, you do.”
“Whatever are you on about?”
“You. The Sea Wolfe. Named for a pirate who took what he wanted, when he wanted it. Faith, I’m beginning to think the rogue’s blood doesn’t run in your veins after all, the way you’re behaving.”
Dorian frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I saw young George before he ran off with his little colleen. Happier than I’ve ever seen him, and it seems he brought part of a family back to Boston with him. One that lived out in Concord and had their home burned by the rebels for harboring a certain naval officer known as the Sea Wolfe.”
Dorian put his forehead in his hand and kneaded his aching temples.
“I told you, word travels,” Merrick said, helping himself to a bit of cheese. He chewed thoughtfully, his warm amber eyes earnest and wise. “Part of that family was a young boy. Thinks the world of you, the lad does,
and so does his mother. And this, despite the fact you’d conveniently disappeared with his sister and went missing for several hours. Honestly, Dorian. Why don’t you just follow your heart, as George did?”
“George is young and foolish.”
“George is happy. And you, my friend—” Merrick plucked another bit of cheese from the plate—“are not.”
“So what are you proposing that I do? Sir Geoffrey is sending me to London with an official account of what happened here yesterday. I sail on the morning tide, and don’t have time to dawdle.”
“Indeed you don’t.” Merrick got to his feet, snaring one last bite of cheese and popping it into his smiling mouth. “George Lloyd may be young, but he’s not so foolish. Certainly not as foolish as you are, my friend, if you don’t follow your heart.”
Dorian took a long swallow of his port and looked up at his former captain. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, yours is the heart of the Sea Wolfe. So think about what it wants ... and then go out and take it.”
“I’m no pirate, Merrick.”
“No, you’re not. But there are times in life when it behooves a man to behave like one.”
Chapter 14
Mercy had spent a restless night. Outside, dawn was breaking. Through the small window that looked out over Boston Harbor and the numerous islands dotting it, she could see the sunrise, gold and silver over the water, a few gulls winging their way overhead. Clad in her shift, she went to the window and with some effort managed to get it open.
She leaned out, breathing deeply of the cool morning air in an attempt to clear her head. Salt marshes and mud, open sea and drifting smoke from hearths, from chimneys, from campfires of both Regulars and rebels.
I miss him.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
I should have trusted him. I should have given up the treasure for him. He’s worth more than what is in that velvet bag. My happiness is worth more than financial security.
Heart Of The Sea Wolfe Page 9