My Enemy, My Heart (The Ashford Chronicles)

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Puzzling over that, she finished preparing the drink. At Ashford’s side, she brushed back his hair and held it to his lips. Even wet, his hair was soft. His lips were white and pinched.

  “What is this?” he growled. “Poison?”

  “I didn’t think about that.”

  “Too bad.” He offered her a faint smile.

  She forgot that she was cold.

  “Drink it,” she said in a husky voice.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He downed it, gasped, spat ginger bits back into the glass. “That was foul.”

  “It’ll work.” She took away the cup. “Now let me look at your hands.”

  She turned them palm up on his knees. They weren’t simply blistered; the blisters had broken. She cleaned them with a cloth dipped in whiskey, which made him grumble something she was glad was unintelligible, then smeared on the salve. All the while, she tried to touch him as little as possible. Touching him wasn’t sensible. She had too much of an instinct to do so. A longing to do so. That yearning was enough to keep her away.

  “There,” she said briskly when she was finished. “That’ll do. You’ll rest now.”

  “Will I?” He gave her a truly sleepy look and lay back on the bunk. “I believe I will.”

  Deirdre headed for the door.

  “Wait.”

  She paused, not looking at him.

  “Thank you.”

  She shrugged and left for her own cabin. There, she tucked herself into her bunk beneath warm blankets. As she buckled the straps that held her in place, she remembered that Ashford hadn’t been buckled in. Well, he was a grown man. He could do it himself. She needed to be alone, to remember her father dying at the shock of being captured and her crew imprisoned. She needed to think about being stranded in England during a war that couldn’t possibly last long, and would likely not end well for the United States. They would end up a British colony again, and if that happened and she helped her crew escape, they would have to become French, as America would no longer be a safe haven.

  America couldn’t lose. She could do her part by sending men capable of fighting back to sea . . .

  A thud jerked her awake. She struggled, unable to move for a moment before remembering to unbuckle the straps. Upright, she listened for more thuds, cracks, the hiss of water rushing through a breached hull.

  Nothing. Though the storm still raged, the ship rode it out with as much grace as possible. Her laden hold helped. But things happened. Spars broke free. Cargo shifted. Men fell.

  “Oh.” She shot out of her bunk and grabbed for the door. The guard was there, slumped on the bottom step of the ladder, asleep. She stepped past him and entered her father’s cabin.

  By the dim light of what the wall chronometer told her was late afternoon, she saw Ashford sprawled on the deck, motionless.

  “Ashford.” She dropped to her knees beside him. “Are you awake?”

  She didn’t think she could lift him onto the bunk if he’d knocked himself unconscious.

  “I am . . . now. Winded.” He rolled onto his belly and got his hands under him.

  She wanted to help. She didn’t want to touch him.

  “I should have told you to strap yourself in.”

  “Never thought about it.” He pushed himself to a sitting position with his back against the bunk. “Phoebe has fiddle boards.”

  “My father didn’t like splinters.”

  “Ah, yes, that was a hazard.” Ashford crossed his arms over his middle. Even in the dim light, he appeared a bit green. “Could you be so kind as to make me more of that infusion?”

  “Of course.” She chopped up more ginger into water and shook a few drops of laudanum into the cup. Not as much of the sleeping draft as she would have liked, but all she could get out of the bottle.

  He drank it, grimacing a bit, then climbed back into the bunk and strapped himself in. “How long will this storm last?”

  Deirdre glanced out the window, now frosted with salt from waves lashing the glass. “It’s abating already. Nothing more than a good blow.”

  He groaned.

  Deirdre headed for the door. She wanted to inspect the rigging, make sure nothing was blowing loose.

  “Wait.” Ashford spoke softly, but it was a command.

  She paused.

  “Will you stay and talk to me?”

  She’d feel safer locked in the hold with her crew.

  “Just until I fall asleep,” he added.

  Could she get to the gold while he slept if she remained?

  Figuring it was worth a try, she pulled the cushion off the bench seat and settled on the deck. Sitting on a chair would be uncomfortable at best. On the cushion, her feet braced against the bulkhead, she sat secure enough to sway with the pitch then roll of the ship.

  “You are amazing,” he murmured. “You ride out this storm like it’s a yachting venture down the Thames.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve barely known anything else.”

  “Yes, twenty-two of your twenty-three years.” His tone held a smile. “What happened in that other year?”

  “Nothing. That’s what was so bad about it.”

  He chuckled. “How old were you?”

  “Too old to be anything but a sailor.”

  “You make a good nurse.”

  “Not good enough to know my father was sick.” Her throat closed, and she bowed her head.

  “My dear girl . . .” He reached out one hand and stroked her cheek. “Tears?”

  “No, I wouldn’t be so weak while I’m awake.”

  “Don’t be absurd. It’s not weakness.”

  “But I didn’t know.” She heard the wail in her voice and clamped her lips shut. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. “He’d been taking laudanum. I didn’t know it until I made your tonic earlier. The bottle was nearly empty.”

  “His heart?”

  She nodded. “I saw him clutch his chest . . . He must have wanted to make it home. We were so close . . .”

  “Deirdre . . .” He ran his hand down her braid, then tangled his fingers in it, pulling it apart. “I’m so sorry. I cannot undo what happened. I can’t take back my actions, but I’ll do my best. If you marry me, you will not entirely lose this wealth.”

  “My crew will still be in prison.”

  But she might have more freedom to get them released.

  “The war won’t last long. How long can your poor little country survive against the strength of Great Britain?”

  He released her hair. It tumbled around her shoulders in a heavy fall that warmed her like a cloak. It felt odd and made her restless, uncomfortable. Her father would never let her cut it, though she’d begged and pleaded often. She knew he hoped that, one day, she would take up the role of a female, be a wife and mother. He wanted to stop worrying about what might happen to her in one of the ports, or the trouble that could befall her if they took on a crewman who decided not to respect her status.

  “But I failed miserably on land.” She spoke the words aloud she’d used to her father every time he suggested she settle down. “I tried, and I was a disaster as a lady.”

  Ashford said nothing for several moments, during which Deirdre noticed a discernible slackening of the wind and no rain to speak of. She suspected they would end up shrouded in fog by morning, becalmed and muffled in vaporous curtains. As long as that didn’t last too long, they would come out all right, head for Bermuda and, if she managed things well, get her crew released. They could find their way to one of the numerous islands and make passage back to America from there. They would be free, and she? She would take her chances with the British. True prison, no doubt, for letting the men go. If she weren’t Ashford’s wife, he wouldn’t be held responsible for her actions.

  “Deirdre?” Her name was a rumble like a purr on his lips. “Will you tell me about that year you were not aboard ship?”

  She shook her head. “It’s too humiliating.”

  “Hmm. Then you had a poor teacher.” He
lifted strands of her hair and brushed them across her lips. “Who was it?”

  “An entire boarding school of snobbish teachers and worse students.” She licked her lips. Feeling decidedly uneasy, she started to rise.

  “Oh, no, you cannot run away right now.” He shifted and rested one hand on her shoulder. “I insist that you stay.”

  “I won’t talk about school.”

  “All right. We’ll talk about something else.” She caught the flash of silver and felt as though she, too, might be suffering from mal de mer. “Like what you intended to do with this stiletto.”

  Chapter 6

  Deirdre squeezed her eyes shut and drew her knees to her chest. All she could do now was brazen this out. “I’ve always carried a stiletto in my braid. My father insisted. It’s why he’d never let me cut my hair.”

  “Probably wise.” Ashford’s voice purred as though he discussed a fine Madeira. “But I insisted that all prisoners be disarmed. We accepted your honor that you had given up all weapons.”

  Deirdre hugged her legs. Having her honor questioned hurt like a prick from the stiletto now in enemy hands. “I didn’t know if your men had enough honor to not . . . if they discovered that I’m female.”

  “Ah, Deirdre.” He stroked her hair. “Doubting our honor doesn’t excuse you not being forthcoming with us. I trusted you.”

  She wanted to hang her head in shame. The hank of her hair he held prevented her.

  “Deirdre, look at me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “This ship doesn’t truly have a captain at present, so that leaves me to give the orders. That’s an order.”

  Knowing she had to regain his trust, she reluctantly turned her head and looked at him. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow. His eyes looked sleepier than usual, no doubt from the laudanum. That didn’t diminish or hide the hurt. His mouth—

  No, she mustn’t look at his mouth and remember how it felt on hers.

  She jumped to her feet, sending pain through her scalp, as she yanked her hair free of his hold. “I’ve obeyed, sir. I looked at you. The sea is settling, so you should feel better soon.” She backed to the door. “That’s all you need from me.”

  “For the moment.” He offered her a half smile. “Go if you like.”

  She liked. She went. She wanted to run on deck and inspect any damage from the storm, but paused in the companionway long enough to greet the guard, who had returned to his post, looking much better. Those ill with seasickness would be missing the waves once glassy seas and a fog rolled in. She felt the cloying dampness already crawling over her skin as the clouds settled down upon the sea. But fog brought some advantages.

  “We should be able to have some food cooked soon.” She told the guard this because he was so thin he looked like he needed a good meal. Then an idea struck her. “Who prepared the oatmeal?”

  “Riley, miss.” He flushed. “Was it all right?”

  “It was done well.” She felt uncomfortable being called miss. “We should probably get a fire going in the galley again and make some more.”

  “Yes, miss. I’ll ask Mr. Ashford.”

  “You do that.” She stepped into her own cabin and shamelessly listened to the exchange.

  “If Miss MacKenzie says it’s safe,” Ashford said, “then do so.”

  Good. Her plans were in motion.

  She waited another quarter hour. Seated at her desk, she wrote while she waited until she smelled smoke from the galley fire, then she went on deck. No major portions of the rigging had landed on the deck, but a spar swung free, causing havoc with lines and sheets and threatening the mainsail. Her hands itched to grab a marlinespike and climb to effect repairs. No one else seemed inclined to do anything. None of the work could be executed by one person, so she activated the first step of her plan for freedom and approached the cook. No one would think a female appearing in the galley odd. Indeed, the ruddy-faced Riley didn’t look in the least surprised to see her.

  He offered her a shy smile. “A hot meal will go well with this damp settling in.”

  “Fog always makes me cold.” Deirdre glanced around the galley, glad to see it was clean.

  Riley hefted the broad wooden spoon with which he was stirring a pot of porridge. “Will this do?”

  “On unsettled bellies, yes.” She offered him her own smile. “Did the prisoners eat earlier?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked offended. “We’re not monsters. We feed our prisoners.”

  “Of course you’re not monsters. Forgive me for suggesting you wouldn’t feed them.” When he appeared mollified, she continued. “Let me help you serve.”

  Since he didn’t seem to have an assistant, Riley accepted her help, loading a heavy wooden tray with bowls of warmed oatmeal into which she suggested the cook toss a handful of raisins, and carried it up to the men gathered on deck, watching the sea flatten and mist descend like a sodden quilt. They thanked her politely, but most began to eat with tentative bites.

  She retreated behind the mainmast, listening to their talk.

  “When will we get rid of those Yankees below?”

  “Soon as the Phoebe meets up with us.”

  “Don’t see hide nor hair of her.”

  “Nor I.”

  “We won’t see her neither if this fog continues, and that makes us responsible for prisoners.”

  Deirdre couldn’t distinguish one English voice from the other, but their tones showed no sign of concern over the missing Phoebe. She didn’t concern herself over its fate either. In fact, the more scarce the other vessel, the better. The Maid would have to go to Bermuda to wait.

  When she descended to the galley again, she found the cook loading up another tray. “For the guards,” he explained.

  “What about the prisoners?”

  “There’s plenty for them, but you can’t be taking it to them.”

  “No, sir.” She began removing more pewter bowls from a chest. “You take that to the guards, and I’ll dish this up. Then you can take it down to the prisoners when you return.”

  He agreed this was the way to do things and departed.

  Deirdre dished up porridge and more. In one bowl, she slipped a paring knife. Two other bowls concealed tightly folded notes she’d smeared with galley grease in the hope it would preserve enough of the message from the cereal to have the notes readable. Who got what didn’t matter; they would use her efforts to good effect, she had no doubt.

  With only a twinge of conscience, she set the bowls on their tray and procured food for herself and Ashford. He wouldn’t feel much like eating, but she’d make him try.

  Having accomplished as much for her crew as she could at the present, she descended the companionway to the main cabin. Ashford was asleep. She set the bowls on the table and slipped behind it to the cupboard that held the preserves and other delicacies for the captain’s table. If Ashford continued to sleep, she might be able to shift a few jars and reach the hidden key to the secret cupboard. But no, she couldn’t. Because of finding her stiletto, he might distrust her so much that he searched her cabin. If he found gold and the bank papers, her game would be up.

  Reluctantly, all she did was pull a canister of tea from the cupboard. When she turned, she found him watching her, his eyes far too alert for him to have been sleeping moments earlier.

  She held up the canister. “Would you like tea? I know you English like it with milk, but maybe black will do.”

  “Black will do.” His gaze passed her to settle on the cupboard. “Thoughtful of you.”

  He was thoughtful about something, too. She read it in his eyes. They weren’t that sleepy. In fact, they appeared far too alert for a man who had drunk even a few drops of laudanum.

  She had to remove the key from its canister of coffee beans before he had the opportunity to look through the cupboard. How, though, when she was out of laudanum?

  Hating to leave him alone in the cabin for a few minutes, she went to the door. “I’ll ma
ke this in the galley. Eat your porridge.”

  He shuddered.

  “You should eat something, sir.”

  “Toast?” He looked so hopeful she hated to disappoint him.

  “Sorry, sir, no bread. Hardtack is the best I can do.”

  “If I must.” He closed his eyes. “But, Deirdre?”

  She rested a hand on the door handle. “Yes, sir?”

  “Stop calling me sir. If I am going to marry you—”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about that, sir.”

  If she got her crew free on Bermuda, she wouldn’t have to.

  She closed the door behind her, climbed past the startled guard, and descended to the galley, where she found the cook washing up the dishes. Water steamed in a kettle, and Deirdre helped herself to a generous amount, carefully pouring it into the teapot between rolls of the ship.

  “Mr. Ashford feeling all right, miss?” Riley asked.

  Deirdre shrugged. “Well enough to talk like a madman.”

  Riley chuckled. “Shouldn’t be disrespectful about an Ashford, miss. They can help you out of the heap of trouble you’re in.”

  “Or get me into more.”

  Her reaction to that kiss warned her Kieran Ashford was nothing but trouble for her.

  She bent her head over the pot, savored the rich aroma of steeping tea leaves. “But I can keep him from casting up his accounts until he’s dead.”

  “See that you do.” Riley clattered some bowls in the pan of dishwater, and Deirdre turned to the doorway. When she was about to step over the coaming into the passage, Riley cleared his throat. “Miss MacKenzie?”

  She paused without looking back. “Yes?”

  “The prisoners say you’re a nice young lady, even if you are dressing like a man and living on a ship of us. And we all know how you clewed up that sheet when we were all too chickenhearted to try.” He hesitated, cleared his throat, splashed some water.