My Enemy, My Heart (The Ashford Chronicles)

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Deirdre waited.

  He clattered a load of bowls onto the counter. “So I’m going to give you some advice.” A bowl slid off the table and onto the deck with a clang like a gong. “Have a care with Mr. Ashford. He’s a bit careless with female hearts, so to speak—if you catch my meaning.”

  “Oh, I catch it,” Deirdre said through her teeth. “You can be right certain that I am not stupid about men.”

  Losing her stiletto in a moment of carelessness was enough stupidity for Deirdre.

  “And thank you for caring, Riley.”

  “I got a daughter about your age,” he said by way of response. “I signed on this voyage to earn her a dowry so she can leave service and marry her young man.”

  Deirdre flinched. She didn’t want to know about the families of these men, didn’t want to know that they were human enough to need the money they would gain from a rich prize. They were stealing from her and her crew. Riley’s daughter would marry while Zeb’s family languished in slavery.

  Yet wasn’t being a servant a kind of slavery, too? It couldn’t be a pleasant life with little to no time off, up early and to bed late, and rarely permitted to marry.

  Uncomfortable, Deirdre beat a hasty retreat.

  Returning to the main cabin didn’t make her any more comfortable. Ashford had risen and was in the process of pulling a clean shirt over his head. Deirdre had seen plenty of chests in her life, yet the sight of Ashford’s made her feel as though the gentle rocking of the ship had turned to a corkscrewing roll.

  Her mouth dry, she hastened to the table with the teapot so that she had her back to him when his head emerged from the white cambric. “I’ll knock next time,” she mumbled.

  “No need.” He sounded more brusque than usual. “The sentry should do that.”

  “He wasn’t there.” Deirdre hadn’t realized it until that moment. “He must have gotten permission to go on deck and eat.”

  “Not from me he did not.” Ashford’s tone was a bit hard. “Captain Heron would have him flogged for that.”

  “And you?” Deirdre busied her hands with pouring out fragrant, dark tea, then adding a dollop of honey to hers. “It’s common practice.”

  “I will give him another chance.” He joined her at the table and raised the cup to his lips, inhaled deeply. “We cannot afford to have a crewman laid up, shorthanded as we are.”

  “Are we?” Deirdre pretended nonchalance as she opened a tin of ship’s biscuit, then fetched down a crockery jar of blackberry preserves that made the tasteless and very hard flour cakes tolerable. “I thought you brought a prize crew aboard.”

  “The storm hit before we finished making transfers.” He eyed the biscuit and preserves. “Isn’t that a waste of good bramble jelly?”

  Deirdre seated herself at the table and broke off a piece of biscuit. “It’ll settle your stomach.”

  “Sailor and nurse.” Ashford sat, too, but made no move to consume anything other than his tea. “And supercargo, too?”

  “No, not usually.” Deirdre ran her tongue around the edge of the biscuit to catch dripping preserves and soften the flour cake. “My father didn’t want me having that much exposure, and I looked too young for anyone to take seriously in bargaining for supplies or cargo.”

  “Mmm.” Ashford’s eyes had gone out of focus. “Sensible. Were you not bored?”

  “Rarely, and even then not as bored as I was at tea parties.” She took a bite out of the biscuit with a crunch.

  Ashford’s eyes snapped into focus—on her mouth. “I would not get bored with you at a tea party.”

  Deirdre blinked at him. “You’re mad. All the gentlemen there looked about to turn up their toes with boredom.”

  “Then they had ice water for blood if you were there.” He turned his head away. “What happens with a fog?”

  “We sit around and wait for it to go away. And when it does, we have some repairs to make.” Since he had his back nearly turned to her, Deirdre licked her fingers of preserves and concentrated on her tea and porridge. “We should also be quiet. It’s not likely there are French ships about this far north, but one never knows. I don’t know if they’d free us or consider us prisoners because we’re English captives.”

  “Now, that would be a coil.” Ashford flashed her a smile. “We might also wish to concern ourselves about American privateers.”

  “We have privateers?”

  “Oh, yes, a score or more, we learned on Jamaica. Causing a great deal of havoc among British merchants.”

  “That’s fortunate, since we don’t have a navy to speak of.”

  “Which makes going to war with England more than a little foolish.”

  “I guess we object to being treated like a market of men for your war with France.”

  Ashford shrugged. “Not my doing. I am just taking advantage of it.”

  “Why? I’ve heard that your family is influential. Doesn’t that translate into money?”

  “My father? Yes. He has pots of it. Whether or not he leaves it to me or my sisters . . .” He curled his fingers around his teacup, his face grim. “I required a separate source of income rather than depending on his largess.”

  “That’s why my father went to sea. He shipped aboard a privateer during our revolution against Britain. Then he decided that depending solely on land for one’s income was too risky, so he sold the plantation.”

  He arched his brows. “Your father had a plantation?”

  “Just a small one along the Potomac. The proceeds from the sale bought his first merchantman. You really should eat something, Ashford.”

  “Later. I need to see what the men are doing.”

  “Nothing when I was up top.”

  “I will tell them to get to work on something.” He still hesitated. “Heron used to be in the navy and says we need to flog the men for their laziness. Is it common practice on merchantmen?”

  “Common enough. But these aren’t merchant sailors. They are privateers.”

  “True. Still—” He glanced over his shoulder. “Did your father flog anyone?”

  “Once.” Deirdre busied herself with closing the biscuit tin and pushing the stopper back into the jar of preserves. She made far too much noise, so she could pretend she didn’t hear Ashford’s next, his inevitable question. “I’d better put these things away in case the wind kicks up and this calm—”

  Ashford dropped his hand onto her shoulder, holding her still. “I asked you what for.”

  “Oh, well . . .” Deirdre shrugged. “The usual. Dereliction of duty. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” She tried to step sideways to move away from him.

  He moved close enough for her to feel him behind her. “Deirdre.” He stroked the side of her neck with one finger. “What is wrong with talking about it? I am in charge of this ship until we catch up with the Phoebe, and I do not hesitate to admit I’m still learning what’s appropriate.”

  “Dereliction of duty is cause for punishment.” Deirdre’s voice sounded small even to her own ears.

  “Then I’d like to know about it.” His voice purred far too close to her ear.

  She hauled in a deep breath, spoke too fast to cover the havoc his nearness wrought on her senses. “It was my fault he wasn’t paying attention on his watch. I was too young to realize I’d started to look female.”

  “Ah.” Gently, he turned her to face him. “He got flogged, and you got sent ashore for a year?”

  She nodded, trying not to meet his gaze.

  “Sounds like you had the worse of the punishments.”

  “I thought so at the time.” She stared at his chin, at the stubble of dark beard and chiseled bone. “But my father shipped him out on a different merchantman, and he got impressed by the British into their navy.”

  “And you think that’s your fault for letting him—” His jaw hardened except for a muscle that punched and twitched on one side. “Take liberties?”

  Deirdre’s eyes widened at the realization of what As
hford thought. She nearly punched him for thinking that of her. With an effort, she held her fists against her thighs. “He was just staring at me because my shirt was wet from spray and I didn’t know it mattered.” She gestured to her bound chest.

  “Too young to realize? How old were you?”

  “Twelve.”

  Disgust twisted Ashford’s features. “I would have simply thrown him overboard.”

  “The sea nearly did that for him. He was supposed to be manning the helm. We broached to and nearly capsized.”

  “So he’s a scoundrel and you get punished.”

  “My father thought I looked too female and needed to learn how to be one, so he set me ashore.”

  “And you went back to sea.”

  “The next time he was in port.” She smiled. “I was a stowaway on my own father’s brig. When he discovered me, he gave me my stiletto and told me to never go anywhere without it.” She held out her hand, pleading with her eyes. “May I please have it back?” She braced herself for his refusal.

  Instead, he drew the knife from his waistband and held it out to her hilt first. “I think your father was right. You need some way to defend yourself. Even though I would swear by the trustworthiness of every man aboard this ship and the Phoebe, I am quite certain your father thought all his men were trustworthy as well, and I will not be responsible for another—” He broke off. “Will you give me your word you will use this on no one except in a crucial situation?”

  “You have my word on that.” She met his gaze with candid directness.

  “Do not abuse my trust again, or I will withdraw my proposal.” Though he smiled at her, she did not think he joked.

  Hurt and not knowing why, she lashed back. “I’m not sure I want that proposal.”

  “Then be prepared to be transferred to the Phoebe once we meet up again, either here on the open sea or in St. George’s Harbor, Bermuda.”

  Chapter 7

  A fresh breeze at sunrise lifted the fog and revealed rigging snarled and broken from the storm’s buffeting. It did not reveal any sign of the Phoebe. So Kieran charted a course for Bermuda, where they could wait for his ship, ordered those crewmen from the Phoebe to effect repairs on the Maid, and asked Deirdre to remain in her cabin.

  “For your own safety.”

  She didn’t like it. She declared she could take care of herself. She taunted him about having men he couldn’t control. He repeated his order and escorted her to the cabin after their breakfast.

  Her talk of what had happened when she was barely more than a child distressed him more than he admitted, and he had lost a considerable amount of sleep over it. He wanted to trust the men. Most had come from his father’s lands or merchantmen. Yet they had been at sea for two months without seeing a woman. Whether she was dressed like a male or not, they all knew Deirdre was a woman, and until—unless she accepted his proposal, she was not safe.

  Another reason why she should consent to becoming his wife. No man would touch an Ashford bride. Until she saw the sense of his offer, he needed to keep a watch over her or keep her confined below, no matter what she called him for doing so.

  Her cabin door had no lock on the outside. Without the equipment to put one in place, he ordered Troy to stand guard. In no way would Deirdre get around Troy. He was loyal to Kieran because Kieran’s father had saved him from being transported to Botany Bay after he was caught forging banknotes. Kieran’s father sent Troy to sea and placed his family in a cottage on the estate.

  His father seemed to be tolerant of everyone’s flaws but Kieran’s.

  Speaking of tolerance, Deirdre had taken to periodically pounding on the deckhead of her cabin. Kieran ignored her as he took a noon sighting.

  Navigation he could do and do well. He’d never fared well in math at Eton, but he hadn’t found any purpose in anything beyond basic arithmetic until he sailed on the Phoebe and learned the trigonometry needed for celestial navigation. Reckoning by the sun with the sextant was the only thing he liked about sailing. Miles of empty blue sea and sky made him feel caged. The narrow beam of the Maid was even worse than the broader Phoebe. Three paces took him from starboard to port. He couldn’t prowl the length with repairs going on.

  Those repairs didn’t appear to be going well. Although Heron had managed to get a few of his more experienced men aboard before the weather deteriorated and the two vessels were separated, none understood the rigging of the Baltimore-clipper-style ship. Even to Kieran’s inexperienced eye, the mess of ropes on the deck resembled his mother’s knitting after her collection of Pomeranians had gotten into it—tangled, twisted, and chewed.

  And the ship was foundering.

  “They need help, sir,” a former sheep farmer named Jones said from the wheel.

  Kieran nodded. “Yes, they do. We will simply sail up to the nearest hiring fair and gather up experienced seamen and carpenters.”

  He didn’t need to be sarcastic. He had a hold full of experienced seamen, men with knowledge of this peculiar slanted rigging.

  Deirdre chose that moment to remind him of her presence, as if he could forget.

  “Like as not we could use some help from her,” Jones suggested.

  Kieran glanced at the disaster of rigging on the main deck. “If you were one of them, lad, would you take directions from a female or from a prisoner?”

  “Depends, sir. They ain’t got no captain. That wouldn’t bother the men none.” Jones scratched his thatch of carroty hair until it stood on end from more than the wind. “Captains are gentlemen. Not like you are, sir, or guess I should say, my—”

  “Sir or Mr. Ashford will do. I think I’ll risk a prisoner or two.”

  But if he dared bring Trenerry up top, that would mean pulling Troy away from Deirdre’s cabin. All right then, he’d take over guard duty.

  “I’ll man the helm,” Kieran said. “Fetch Troy to me.”

  “Aye, sir.” Jones nipped down the ladder. A moment later, Troy and he ascended to the quarterdeck.

  “Bring up Trenerry and at least one other the prisoners say is good with the rigging. We’re going to be in a pickle if something isn’t done about the mess.”

  Troy nodded. “Aye, sir. Miss MacKenzie’s been trying to tell you so this half hour or more. We all saw t’other day that she knows what’s what with the sail—”

  “I doubt most of the lads will listen to a female giving them orders. We will manage with one or two of the prisoners.”

  Troy nodded. “Aye, sir. Trenerry and another. Mebbe the old man.”

  Kieran waited on deck until Trenerry and Wat Drummond emerged from the main hatch with Troy behind them. The two prisoners threw up their hands to shield their eyes against the glare. In two days, they’d grown unkempt and scruffy with beard stubble, uncombed hair, and clothing soiled from ballast mud from the hold. The old man’s face shone as though with fever perspiration, and Trenerry’s looked as hard as a bronzed mask.

  Guilt plucked at Kieran’s innards, twinges he couldn’t put down to mal de mer on a gentle sea. These men needed access to washing water, clean clothing, and fresh air. Prisoners they might be, but they weren’t worms to be kept in the dark dankness of a hold. He’d just have to watch Trenerry. If a man spelled trouble in every stiff movement, it was Ross Trenerry. He sneered at the mess the English crew had made of the damaged rigging and said something that turned their faces crimson with embarrassment or rage or both. Troy raised a hammer-sized fist.

  “No,” Kieran shouted.

  Troy obeyed, but didn’t lower his hand. Trenerry laughed and made a rude gesture.

  “I’ll stop that behavior right now.” Kieran stalked straight for Trenerry. His men drew back, watching, faces too blank to mean they weren’t anticipating a showdown. Old Wat’s chest rose and fell in a sigh audible even above the whine of wind through the rigging, and Troy grinned outright, letting his fist fall to his side at last.

  Trenerry took a step forward. “Your men are stupid and incompetent.”
The soft drawl of his voice belied the meanness of his words. “You’ll have us all at the bottom of the sea if you keep this up.” He swept one arm to indicate drooping sail and flapping lines. “Some of us might rather be there than enjoying English hospitality”—his upper lip curled—“but neither of us wants Miss MacKenzie to suffer.” He met and held Kieran’s gaze. “Do we?”

  Kieran read the pain and the intelligence in the younger man’s eyes, listened for an underlying message in his words, and understood.

  Trenerry would do nothing stupid if it meant that Deirdre was at risk.

  “Get us to Bermuda in one piece,” Kieran said, “and Miss MacKenzie will be as safe as any woman ever is.”

  A muscle in Trenerry’s jaw bunched and twitched. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Get us to Bermuda safely. I will listen to any reasonable proposal of how to do that.”

  Kieran turned away. He had no doubt that Trenerry would get his men to straighten out the rigging, have it repaired well enough to get them to Bermuda, and sail them into the port at St. George’s without so much as a hint of rebellion or mutiny.

  She was in his cabin. Her father’s cabin, Kieran reminded himself as he opened the door and found her holding a canister that rattled in her hand.

  “Coffee,” she said. “Now that we have a galley fire, I’d like some coffee.” She smiled at him over her shoulder, her braid swishing across her back. “So you brought Ross up top. That was wise.”

  “We will see if that was wise.” Kieran studied her face, seeking what he did not know. Something was different with her. Something wrong? He didn’t know. Just different, a sureness to her shoulders, a brightness to her eyes.

  A fullness to her figure.

  She still wore breeches and a man’s shirt, but nothing bound her breasts. High and firm, they were a sight fine enough to distract the most self-controlled man.

  “I saw a waistcoat in your sea chest.” His tone was rough. “Put it on before you go up top again.”