She hadn’t felt so alone, so isolated from everyone and everything she loved, since the year she spent at boarding school, not even after her mother died. Then she had her father and crew like Wat to comfort her. Now she could reach out to none of them for solace.
For the first time in ten years, she understood why her father wanted her to learn life on shore. He wanted her to have a family of her own, a husband, children, those she could turn to when he died.
But she hated life on land, the idle uselessness of her days. She couldn’t imagine loving a landsman and figured she had lots of time to find a man as her mother had, a sea captain who would take her with him on his journeys. She never expected Father to die at only forty-nine years.
Knowing the slap-hiss of the waves against the hull would cover the sound, she pounded her fists on her mattress. Her chest ached from holding in her pain. Her thoughts shredded around self-recriminations, memories, and attempts to make plans.
The disaster had been her fault. She had failed to recognize the Phoebe for what it was. She had disobeyed her father and not gone below. She was a woman and therefore would not be allowed to join her crew in prison, be the glue that held them together for her father’s sake, organize them, lead them out of captivity and back to freedom.
The sole solution was to get the crew free before they reached England. Bermuda was the only location that made escape possible, with its harbor full of ships from myriad countries.
She had two days to get Ashford to trust her enough to leave her alone in the main cabin. She had made a start, had told him more about herself than she intended. But she didn’t know what else to do. He made her uncomfortable with the way he looked boldly into her eyes and stared at her lips, touched her lips.
She touched her fingers to her lips. Why would he stare at them? They were so fat, like someone had punched her mouth or she’d been stung by bees. Hideous. Maybe that was why he stared. He’d never seen a female who looked like her.
Deirdre had seen English ladies on the visits they’d made to London before President Jefferson put an embargo on shipping between England and America. They were so pretty with their fair skin and dainty hands, their curled hair and filmy dresses. She hadn’t owned a dress for six years, not since that London trip.
London, where her father had deposited funds in a British bank. Proof of that deposit also lay in the secret compartment. Once in England, if she could get to the capital and that gold, she could bribe her way to freedom.
And leave her crew behind?
No, she had to get them free first. But how could she if she were a prisoner herself? They were sailing to Plymouth. Far from London. If all the Maid’s crew ended up on the Phoebe, she wouldn’t be able to help them before they lay behind Dartmoor’s walls.
She drummed her fingers on her knee. So, how could she keep the men aboard this vessel?
The schooner dipped and rolled, dipped and rolled, timbers and lines creaking to the wind that should have saved the clipper earlier. Shouts penetrated the deckhead, telling her that someone was giving orders to take in sail for the night. The Maid pitched and yawed, slapping the waves from stem to stern instead of its earlier even roll. Whoever was issuing the sail instructions didn’t know how to manage the sails on a clipper, with its slanted masts. Few men did. Not enough of the fast vessels existed. They’d broach her if they weren’t careful, snap a mast or even capsize her.
She scrambled to her feet, prepared to give orders on how to draw in the sails in a way that kept the schooner secure, its rigging intact. But a cough sounding outside her door reminded her that she had a guard who would probably not let her on deck.
In the moments she hesitated, the clipper settled back into the gentle swells, rocking like a giant cradle.
Deirdre relaxed, a plan growing in her mind. She realized that she should have listened to Heron and Ashford talking. It was possible with her ear pressed to the bulkhead that adjoined her father’s cabin. But she hadn’t, and now Ashford was there alone. She had heard Heron bid him goodnight.
That man, that stranger, was going to sleep in her father’s bunk. The idea brought the fight back to her soul. She would defeat this man or die trying.
Deirdre woke to a cloudy blue sky and the feel of a blanket spread over her. Someone had covered her where she’d fallen asleep curled into a corner of her bunk. Shivering despite the sultry air, she huddled beneath that blanket and tried not to think about the man who had likely come into her cabin while she slept, kindly intentions or not. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, but she couldn’t bear the idea of facing a day without her father presiding over the breakfast table. A stranger would sit there, aristocratic and self-assured of his place and ownership. She’d be tempted to toss hot coffee into his face.
Oh, but hot coffee!
She smelled it and heard the rattle of the silver service. She couldn’t let this interloper take all of her father’s coffee.
She tossed off the blanket and rose. She needed to comb and braid her hair again, change into a shirt that wasn’t crumpled. She wished she could wash. Her face felt sticky, her eyes crusty. She must have cried in her sleep—silently, she hoped. But no one would provide her . . .
She rubbed sleep from her eyes and saw water in a pitcher, squat to keep it from tipping over, sitting atop the tiny table in the corner of her cabin.
She happily made use of the water, washing her face and torso, then opened her chest for a fresh bandeau to bind her breasts.
After struggling to tie the strip of cloth behind her back, she yanked a shirt over her head, fastened the two buttons at the neck, and grasped the door handle. An instant before she exited her cabin, she remembered she should be polite to him, the English privateer who was no sailor. She must be more than polite. She should be friendly, cooperative, whatever necessary to get him to trust her enough to leave her alone in her father’s cabin.
Making her face relax, if not display a smile, she opened the door.
One of the burly young seamen from the Phoebe straightened from his slouch against the bulkhead. “Miss MacKenzie.” He raised one hand as though about to salute. “Mr. Ashford said for you to go straight in to him when you woke.” He tapped once on the main cabin door, then pushed it open. “Miss MacKenzie, sir.”
Ashford chuckled. “Thank you, Teague. I thought the coffee would wake her. Miss MacKenzie, do come in.”
Her stomach suddenly knotting, she stepped over the coaming and entered the cabin. Ashford moved from behind his chair and gave her a courtly bow, sending his hair sliding over one shoulder.
So odd, that swath of dark hair in this age of short hair being fashionable. It looked soft, too, with just the hint of a wave. Experiencing the odd desire to push it away from his face, she clasped her hands behind her back. “Good morning, Mr. Ashford.”
He made a motion with one hand, and the cabin door closed behind her. “Do please sit down.” He gripped the back of one chair as though he were pulling it out from the table.
The gesture was absurd with the chair bolted to the deck. It didn’t sit well with Deirdre either. Men weren’t courtly to her. They were mostly respectful of her because her father was the captain, but the only time politeness carried beyond common courtesy, the man wanted something from her.
This man wanted something from her.
Wary, she sidled past him and slid onto the chair. Bowls of porridge stood between sandbags that kept them from slipping, and fiddle boards held the coffeepot in place. Molasses-laced oatmeal and fresh coffee made her mouth water enough to relax the tension in her belly. Instinct encouraged her to grab her spoon and dig in, fill her mug and gulp in the event these treasures were snatched away like the life she had known for the past ten glorious years.
She kept her hands clasped on her knees, waited for him to sit.
Ashford remained behind her chair. “Did you sleep well, Miss MacKenzie?”
“Well enough, thank you.”
“I was concerned whe
n I heard you weeping.”
“I have no recollection of doing anything so weak.”
“Weak to cry when your father has just died? Not at all.” He moved toward his chair at last, brushing the tips of his fingers across her cheek as he passed.
She dug her own fingertips into her knees. That touch brought back her taut belly. Coffee and porridge didn’t smell that good after all.
He poured coffee into both their mugs. “That’ll make the world look better. I’m not sure about the porridge, though. Never touch the stuff at home, but eggs won’t do out here at sea.”
Deirdre sipped at her coffee, appreciating its warmth. “We can be in Bermuda in two days. You can get eggs there.”
“Hmm.” Ashford grimaced around a mouthful of porridge, swallowed, then shook his head. “Heron does not want to go there. May I give him a reason why we should, other than the one I . . . Well, I will get to that later.”
A plan began forming in Deirdre’s mind. “There’s a storm coming.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s September in the Caribbean, and I can smell rain.”
“You are crazed. No one smells rain.”
Deirdre shrugged and decided to make herself eat her oatmeal. She needed her strength.
“Are you ever wrong?” he asked.
“Sometimes. Storms change direction. But can’t you feel the air and these swells?”
“Yes . . . I can.”
A tightness in his voice drew Deirdre’s attention. She glanced up to find him with his fingers white-knuckled around his spoon, and his face pale.
“Do you get seasick, Mr. Ashford?” She couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her tone.
His sun-bronzed skin flushed. “Not very admirable, is it?”
His apparent discomfort made her soften her response. “Some storms make even the most seasoned sailors sick. My father—” Her throat closed without warning. She dropped her spoon and would have sprung to her feet and dashed from the cabin, but she had to stay, had to be nice. She pressed her fingers to her lips to stifle the sob wanting to emerge.
He fixed his sleepy gaze on her and reached out one hand to cover hers lying on the table. “I will not think the less of you if you weep in front of me. I would weep if I lost my father.”
The idea of him having a father he considered worth weeping over distracted Deirdre enough to control her grief. She retrieved her spoon from the table and her hand from beneath his, and made herself resume eating and conversing. “What are you going to do with my crew?”
“We are setting half of them on the Phoebe.”
“Which half?” She tried not to sound so interested.
“Which half do you recommend?”
She stared at him. “You’d take my recommendation?”
Kieran smiled. “Heron tells me that his men had some difficulty with your rigging. We could use one or two of your men to assist.”
Deirdre sent a prayer of thanks to heaven.
“You’re not afraid we’d sail you right into the Chesapeake?”
“Not at all.” Ashford poured more coffee into their mugs. “I am not wholly useless on a ship. The Phoebe has a fine navigator, and he’s shown me how it works. I will do the navigation here.”
“You’re staying aboard until we reach England?” Deirdre shifted in her chair, suddenly uncomfortable. “Do you think that’s wise? I mean . . .” Her cheeks burned, and she jabbed at her oatmeal congealing in its bowl. “I’m a single female without a chaperone, and you . . .”
He kept looking at her mouth.
“Finish your breakfast, and we will talk about that.”
Deirdre pushed her bowl, sandbags and all, away from her. “I’m finished.” She picked up her coffee mug and carried it to the bench seat below the stern window.
That was where she always sat and talked over business with her father. She didn’t realize her mistake until Ashford joined her. The seat was plenty wide enough for two people to sit comfortably, and Ashford sat a discreet six inches away. She still felt as though he sat right beside her. Ridiculous. Irrational. Uncomfortable. She couldn’t move now.
“Would you disapprove of Ross Trenerry going to the Phoebe?”
“Disapprove?” she repeated to stall for time and work out why he’d asked that question.
“Disapprove, object to . . .” He shrugged. “Would you grieve his absence?”
“Would I—oh.” She thought about Ross defending her after her father’s funeral, and understood what Ashford was asking. “Of course I’d dislike him being on another vessel. He’s a dear friend. We’ve been on ships together for seven years. But he’s nothing more to me, not that that’s any of your concern.”
“Actually, it is. I could not ask you this if he were . . . if you and he have an understanding.”
She lowered her coffee mug to her knee. “An understanding?”
“A promise, a betrothal.”
“To Ross?” That made her laugh.
Ashford arched one dark brow. “I would not let him hear you laugh at that idea. It might break his heart.”
“Not Ross. He’s like a brother to me, and I his sister.”
“I have sisters, Miss MacKenzie. No man looks at his sister like Ross looks at you.”
Deirdre started to deny his implication, but oblique words of her father’s came back to her, a caution not to spend so much time exclusively with Ross. She had thought her father meant she would make the crew jealous if the captain’s daughter picked out one man, even the mate, particularly. Now she realized her father meant she must not give Ross hope when she thought of him like a brother.
“No promises to Ross or anyone else.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”
“It may be.” He removed her cup from her hands, rose, and set it between the fiddle boards. Instead of returning to the bench, he stalked around the cabin, bracing one hand on a chair back, then the other on the bulkhead. He circumnavigated the room until once again he dropped onto the bench seat beside her. Closer to her.
Deirdre tried to edge away from the heat of his nearness. The cabin was too stifling for contact with a friend, let alone a stranger, despite a brisk wind blowing through the stern windows.
He gripped her hands, holding her in place with the light pressure of his long fingers and the intensity of his gaze. “Miss MacKenzie, Deirdre, I need to ask you a question to which I need a swift response. But do not act too hastily. It’s important you consider all the consequences one way or the other, even though I am fairly certain you will wish to say no.” Speech delivered all in a rush, he paused to draw breath.
Deirdre stared at him, eyes wide, brows elevated. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but I’m pretty sure you don’t need to hold onto me like I’m going to fly out the window while you ask it.”
“Perhaps you will not, but I might.” He released her hands and took up a stance at the table, his back to her. His shoulders rose and fell with his audible sigh. “Miss MacKenzie, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Will I—what?”
Surely she had misunderstood him.
“Will you . . . marry me?” He faced her then, his hands shoved into his pockets, his color heightened.
Deirdre shook her head, still unable to believe her ears. “You must be mad.”
“Quite likely.” The corners of his mouth tilted up, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“We don’t know one another, and we are enemies by the declarations of our respective governments. I’m your prisoner.”
“That is precisely why I have made my proposal.” He removed his hands from his pockets and returned to sit beside her. “You are in a peculiar situation being a noncombatant, and marriage is the only way I know to protect you. As my wife, you will not have to go wherever the authorities send you. You will be free to come to my house under the protection of my family. You will have all the rights and privileges of a—of you
r rank.”
Rights and privileges. The words sounded like gold, frankincense, and myrrh laid in her lap, gifts worth a king’s ransom. Yet one observation she had made on that long-ago London visit was that married ladies in England had few rights and privileges. They seemed to travel with no less than one servant in tow, and everything belonged to their husbands.
Everything she had owned now belonged to Kieran Ashford. But if she got hold of the specie and was still independent, she could help her crew.
“From what I know,” she said, “I’ll be better off as the prisoner guest of some tradesman’s family than as a wife.”
“Not true.” He drummed his fingers on his knees. “My family is somewhat above guarding our wives like a sultan’s harem. That means they enjoy more freedom than those in the middle classes.”
“In other words, you’re landed gentry.”
“We have land, yes.”
“How much?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. Enough to keep the wolves from the door.”
“And outfit a privateer.” Deirdre leaned against the bulkhead beneath the stern windows and crossed her arms, watching him through her lowered lashes. “In other words, you have enough wealth that your family can do as it pleases without recriminations.”
He ducked his head and began to pick nonexistent lint from his breeches. “There are limitations to what we can get away with.”
A light flared in Deirdre’s mind, a suspicion that perhaps this man had crossed over the edge of those limitations and gotten himself sent to sea. The revelation gave her encouragement and made her warier at the same time.
“Marrying the enemy isn’t crossing that line?” She pressed for more details, information that would benefit her and her men.
He kept his head bent and remained silent for several moments. Through the open windows, she heard Ross shout, “Not that sheet, you fool.”
Ah, dear Ross, not the most diplomatic of men, was berating one of the Englishman on his poor handling of the schooner’s sails. How she longed to run up, calm him, soothe the Englishman’s no doubt ruffled feathers, make certain everyone was all right.
My Enemy, My Heart (The Ashford Chronicles) Page 5