“Ye should have a look at this, Cap’n. Maybe it’ll jar loose yer memory,” he said in a gentle tone, stepping away.
Landon gave Gus a puzzled expression. He opened the book and read aloud, “January 1811?” He flipped through the pages. “’Tis indeed my hand, but I don’t remember writing the words.”
He froze, his hand stilled on a page halfway through the book. Brow furrowed, he began to read, “30 May, 1811. It is with a heavy heart that we said farewell to Fynn Ahern today. His injuries from the last encounter with Gampo were too severe. As her new captain, Brendan Ahern has decided to take his father to Baracoa for burial and to arrange repairs for the Reward, while Captain O’Brien and I continue ahead to Charleston. It is our decision to keep Captain Ahern’s mysterious appointment with Commodore George Grey while our ships are in dry dock. Once the Reward is able to join us, we will continue our route to Philadelphia then on to New York.” Landon’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat.
Keelan’s heart went out to him as grief seeped from his eyes. His fingers went slack and the journal fell to the floor. Dealing with the death of a treasured friend was hard enough the first time. Now, Landon had to relive the anguish of his mentor’s passing again. This burden fell on top of the ragged torment currently raging within him from his wife’s betrayal and death, once years in the past, again recent and raw as if it happened yesterday.
She retrieved the book from the floor and placed it on the bed, unsure how to comfort him. “Lan—um, Captain Hart…”
He raised his head, misery and sorrow saturated his features like water filled a sponge. “You may go,” he said hoarsely, turning his attention to Gus. “You and I have much to discuss.”
Dismissed, Keelan blindly reached for the doorknob. Tears blurred her vision as she slunk from the cabin. She ran below, past the galley and down to the main hold of the ship.
The smell of horses and damp wood assailed her nostrils. Tears were streaming down her face freely now. She stumbled to Juliet’s stall, heaved the latch up and fell inside. Munching on a mouthful of hay, the mare turned her head toward Keelan and gave her a soft snort. The foal paused a moment from his nursing, then carried on. She ran her hands over Juliet’s neck and back before patting her silver flank and sinking down to the floor in the far corner of the stall. She hugged her knees to her chest and sobbed.
What had she done? It was her fault the barrels broke loose. If she’d tied them correctly, or at least found someone else who could, Landon would have never been injured. Would his memory return or would she forever be a stranger to him? A thick weight descended into her stomach, taking her future with Landon Hart with it.
A whisper of warm breath on her hair interrupted her misery. “Not now; go away, Juliet,” she mumbled, keeping her head buried in her arms. Velvety soft lips nuzzled her ear and she shook her head. “Leave me be.” Another huff and more nuzzling on her neck had her finally opening her eyes.
Two black, spidery legs wobbled near her right foot. Keelan raised her head. The soft brown eyes of Juliet’s foal contemplated her with a calm interest.
“Well, hello, young one,” she whispered. “My, but aren’t you a handsome little man? ”
His upper lip twitched and he nudged her forehead.
She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I should return to my duties.”
A light whistling attracted his attention and the foal turned his head toward the stall door. Daniel stepped inside and hung a water bucket on a hook suspended by a chain from the ceiling. He started when he saw her.
“Miss Keelan?” he whispered. “Are you all right?” He stepped over and squatted in front of her, his eyes hooded with concern.
“Landon woke up.”
He grinned, the smile lines from the corners of his eyes creased to the silver hair of his temples. “Wonderful news, that.” He tilted his head, once again serious. “But why are you so distressed?”
Her chin quivered, and she wiped her nose with her sleeve. “He doesn’t recognize me.”
Daniel’s gray eyes widened. “He doesn’t?”
“It seems that his memories from the past five years are…gone.” She swallowed as her voice faltered, “He doesn’t know who I am. It’s as if we never met. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to like me.”
Daniel touched her hand lightly. “Did you tell him that you were his wife?”
She shook her head. “How, when in his mind, he’d only recently learned that his wife was not only dead, but also an adulteress? Besides, Gus was with us in the cabin.”
She stared at Daniel’s hand, still resting comfortingly on hers. The dye on his skin was still a shade darker; hers had started to fade. “Daniel, he didn’t remember that Fynn had been killed. Gus made him read his journal and he had to relive the pain of Fynn’s loss again.”
Daniel gave her a sad shake of his head and rose to his feet. He held out his hand and she accepted it, allowing him to pull her up. “It might take time for his memories to return. Be patient,” he said.
She shrugged and nodded. What more could she do?
Keelan went to the galley and helped Marcel prepare for the next meal. With the seas calmer, he was able to rouse the fire and heat a large kettle of water. They made Hoppin’ John for the crew. She also made scones for Landon and his officers.
That part of her work done, Keelan wandered up to the main deck. The crew gathered in a circle near the main mast. Before she made it to the edge of the group, the clash and ching of metal against metal told her there was a sword fight. Unable to see past the crewmen, she headed toward the companion ladder near where Landon and Gus relaxed at the helm.
Landon, while upright, leaned heavily against the rail, pale and drawn. Even so, his keen azure gaze trapped hers for a moment. She caught her breath, hoping. He shifted his attention to the sword fight. A heaviness pressed on her shoulders and chest. He still didn’t know her.
She meant nothing to him.
When she topped the third step, she could see over the heads of the sailors. Daniel and Ronnie circled each other, sabers up. Ronnie swung his weapon. Daniel was still and fluid at the same time. A flash of silver followed by a strident, metallic clash blocked Ronnie’s strike. Ronnie parried and struck out again, only to end up with the tip of Daniel’s sword at his chin.
The men roared and clapped. Ronnie, grinned and shook his head while Daniel raised his sword and gave him a spry salute. When Daniel lowered his weapon, he caught sight of Keelan.
“Let’s have another go, Mr. Kahlil, what do you say?” Ronnie used Daniel’s alias, keeping with the charade Daniel and Keelan had to play.
“I have a suggestion instead, Mr. Ahern,” Daniel replied nodding toward Keelan. “Mahdi has been negligent in his training of late. It would do him good to exercise his sword arm a bit. Mahdi?”
Ronnie’s eyes widened, “But, sir—”
“It’s quite all right. Mahdi and I used to train together every morning. He should be an adequate sparring partner for you.” He gestured to Keelan then paused as if he might reconsider. “That is, if the wounds have healed enough on your back?” His forehead creased with concern. He’d forgotten about her still healing lashes, but they were healing well.
Gampo and his men had stolen Landon’s cargo, then kidnapped her from her uncle’s Charleston town house. One of Gampo’s men had whipped her for refusing his advances. That was close to a month ago. Landon had asked her to sail away with him that night, as his wife, and she’d joyfully accepted. She glanced up at her husband again. He simply stared at her, waiting for her to respond to Daniel’s challenge, nothing in his gaze but a mild interest.
Their first meeting had occurred after a sparring session between her and Daniel. She’d been dressed much as she was now, in boy’s clothes and boots. Her heart lifted a bit. Perhaps this exercise might nudge his memory of that day.
She shifted her gaze back to Daniel and smiled. “I believe they’ve healed enough for a small test.”
The men roared with approval and parted for her to enter the circle.
“But…” Ronnie looked from Daniel to Keelan. “Mahdi is…is….”
Daniel lowered his brows in warning, lest Ronnie forget himself and expose her.
“I’m a head taller and two stones heavier! Tis not a fair fight!” Ronnie blurted.
Daniel caught Keelan’s eye and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re right, it’s not a fair fight.” He handed her his sword. “But I’m sure Mahdi will go easy on you at the beginning.”
The men guffawed and Ronnie’s ears reddened. He reached up and scratched the back of his shoulder, then still dubious, gave a slight shrug of acquiescence.
Keelan attempted a few practice swings to test the elasticity of the skin across her shoulders. An uncomfortable pull stretched against the gently healed wounds, but nothing painful. How fast could she move? She increased the speed and made a figure eight and nothing stung or pained her, so she stopped and nodded to Daniel. “Feels good enough.”
The men were silent a moment before one of the sailors called out, “Sixpence on the boy!”
“Which one?”
“The Persian!”
“I’ll put six on Ronnie!”
With that, there were more bets and jovial taunting among the crew. Keelan raised her sword in a salute, and Ronnie did the same. Both began circling. Ronnie made the first move lunging half-heartedly at her. Keelan stepped aside, batted his blade down, spun and slapped the flat of her blade across his back as he stumbled past.
The men laughed and continued to toss out jibes as well as bets. She faced him again. Ronnie’s lips were in a thin line and his face reddened at the good natured cheers and jeers from the men.
“C’mon Ronnie, lad!”
“Yer a head taller and a stone or two heavier, remember? Put yer weight into it!”
Ronnie raised his brows at her and by the expression on his face, he wasn’t willing to hold back any longer. His swings became faster and harder. The two lunged, swung, blocked and parried for several more minutes until both were panting from the exertion.
Ronnie was stronger, but predictable. All she had to do was faint to the left to pull him off balance, kick his feet out from under him and she’d win. However, she needed Ronnie’s help and protection. He seemed like a good lad, but she’d met him only a week ago. She couldn’t take the risk she’d wound his youthful pride enough that he’d lash out later and reveal her disguise or refuse to assist her and Daniel when they needed him.
She slowed down her pace and brought her weapon up in a diagonal slash, allowing Ronnie the opportunity to block and disarm her, which he did.
She raised her hands. “I yield.”
The men cheered and crowded him, slapping him on the back, but he caught her gaze and his eyes narrowed. She gave him the tiniest lift of her chin in response. She’d not embarrass him in front of the men, but neither would she lie to him.
She couldn’t stop herself from glancing back to the helm. Did it work? Landon frowned at her. It hadn’t. Not only had it not jolted his memory, but now he looked angry. What had she done to raise his ire this time?
The activity had winded her and a fine sweat covered her brow and face. She absently reached up and removed the faded cloth from her head and used it to wipe her face and neck. Landon whirled away from her, hands braced on the rail, his attention on the horizon.
She was more alone now than she’d been in her entire life.
CHAPTER FOUR
The bones of the Desire creaked and groaned. It was dusk and the last vestiges of the sun’s rays skittered over the wall opposite the port hole as the ship rose and fell with the rolling ocean. Keelan dipped a rag into the shallow bowl of tepid water and rubbed it over her face, neck and arms, wiping away the grit of dried salt spray. She studied the top of her hand, then craned her head and peered at the back of her shoulder. The stain had definitely faded. She glanced at the small bottle of dye near the bowl. She’d have to reapply it before they sailed into the port of Charleston.
The thought of another application had her wrinkling her nose. The dye had been made from a mixture of molasses, black walnut hulls, and a partially burned hog carcass. The odor wasn’t unpleasant as much as out of place. Would the crew wonder why she smelled like a burned ham, or would they not think on it, since she worked in the galley?
Hopefully, the latter.
She let her shoulders fall and huffed out a short sigh. Best to get it done; she’d put it off long enough. She pulled the stopper from the bottle of dye and paused. Mrs. Schoen, a tavern keepers wife and a part of Fynn’s network of folk helping slaves escape to freedom, had rubbed the dye on Keelan’s face and shoulders the first time.
How would she be able to spread the stain evenly over her face by herself without a mirror? Landon had one in his cabin. If he was still on the aft deck talking with Gus, she’d have plenty of time to borrow it. She would be in and out before he returned for bed.
“Is the Whistling Pig Tavern still our Charleston contact point?” Landon needed to know how much things had changed over the past five years. It seemed that, other than dates of landfall and the value of cargo, much had remained the same with the exception of the battle that cost Fynn his life.
And a relationship with a woman named Keelan Grey, according to Ronnie.
“Aye,” Gus said, packing his pipe and lighting it. “If any runaways made it there, the Mr. Schoen will have them hid away beneath the tavern for us, or up in the attic.”
“That makes things easier.” It was with a sense of relief that he remembered the friendly German tavern keeper and his wife. This situation was damned annoying, not recognizing a face when he should. Thankfully, Gus spent the day at his shoulder, whispering names in his ear so the crew would not guess his recent affliction.
Five years.
It had been five years since he’d sailed from Baracoa, a widower. He’d been a fool then, to take a wife, he knew that now. She’d been both beautiful and the daughter of a ship’s captain. She knew a sailor’s life and accepted him just the same. He’d been convinced he’d found a wife who understood the call of the sea.
When he made port after nearly a year and came home to a cold hearth and tight-lipped townsfolk…he sought out the priest of Baracoa to inquire the location of his wife. The priest led him to a gravesite where she rested. He’d fallen to his knees in grief and shock. It was many minutes before he read the markings on the stone. Both his wife and her child had died of fever a week after the child was born.
The date on the headstone was last month.
He’d been gone a year.
Even an idiot would be able to deduce that she’d gotten pregnant after he went to sea. The grief of loss coupled with the pain of her betrayal had been almost too much for him to bear. He’d made a vow that day.
Never again.
Never again would he give away his heart.
Never again would he marry.
Gus gestured to the stern then pulled on his pipe. He blew the smoke out in a long thin stream. “Well, at least ye still know the difference between the bow of a ship and the stern. ’Tis a start.” He chuckled good-naturedly at his own joke.
Landon glowered at his first mate before turning his gaze back to the wake swirling and gurgling behind the ship. “If my head didn’t still pound harder than a smithy at an anvil, I’d box your ears just for thinking that thought.” He sipped from his tankard then stared into its depths. “I usually know every man hired to serve on my ship. Now, at least a quarter of the men I don’t even recognize.”
His mind drifted to Fynn’s son, Ronnie. “In my last memory of Ronnie, he was six inches shorter and had a voice like a nun.”
“And knobby legs and a penchant for disaster,” Gus added with a laugh.
“Remember when he raced McAllister to the tip of the topgallant brace and back?” Landon chuckled.
Gus slapped his knee and stretched out his thick legs bef
ore crossing his ankles. “Aye, I do! Like a scrawny monkey, he was.” He puffed on his pipe. “McAllister gave up halfway through. He knew he’d lost.”
“Seeing Ronnie, now as a growing young man, is what finally forced me to accept that my memories from the past five years had been taken.” Landon mumbled, almost to himself.
“Has anything come back to ye?” Gus blew a ring of smoke and watched it drift away.
“Not yet,” Landon said. “Not entirely. You seem unconcerned with it. I have to admit, it vexes me beyond my patience.” Damned inconvenient was what it was, and unnerving. He felt weak and helpless, and he hated it.
Gus struck a match and relit his pipe. “Well, lad, I’ve seen me share of carnage and mystery all involving men’s lives and deaths. Things happen sometimes ye can’t explain away.” He stared up at the sky for a moment, then continued. “Once, I chatted with a man in a pub in Cadiz. He kept having furious dreams of drowning and burning at the same time. The dreams invaded his head during the day and the night. At last, it was time for his ship to sail; he stood on her deck as she was leaving port, seeing the same images over and over in ‘is head until he lost his mind and dove overboard. He swum ashore and walked back to town. He said the horrible images left his head and he felt calm, content. He signed on with another merchant the next day. Never had them dreams again.”
Gus puffed on his pipe a moment before he continued. “He found out later that the ship he’d abandoned had been seized by Tripolitan pirates. They’d taken all they could hold, then scuppered the ship. Set charges to blow up her magazines with the crew still tied to the lines and masts. If the explosion didn’t kill the crew, the water did when the ship went under.” He locked his gaze to the heavens again and sighed.
“It’s near impossible to try and figure out how yer head works, Cap’n. I’ve seen men clobbered hard enough that they forgot their names and never remembered them again. I’ve seen other’s wake up the next day fine as sea mist.” Gus turned his pipe upside down and tapped it over the rail, sending the coals into the sea.
Hart's Reward (Pirates & Petticoats #3) Page 3