Deirdre started to laugh. “You’re awful. You’ll go back, won’t you?”
“Possibly.”
“And pay half the price.”
“Nothing wrong with being frugal. Now, look at these shawls. You will need one to go over your dress.” He picked up a gossamer silk confection with silver embroidery around the edges.
Deirdre snatched the shawl away from him. “Buy gifts for your mother and sisters and father and friends, but don’t buy me anything.”
“When we are wed—”
“You may buy me anything you like, but not before.” She glanced back at the inn, looked about to say something, then paused as church bells rang. “I’d like to go to a service. Vespers?”
“In those clothes?”
She made a face at him. “I always have before, though a real bath would be nice. And don’t you need to find a bishop or something for a license?”
“Nothing that formal here in the colonies, but I do need to make an arrangement for that and a place for me to stay tonight.” He turned them back to the Royal George, leaving behind the colorful and crowded market with too many things that would enhance Deirdre’s beauty.
Once inside, he bespoke private rooms and was given exactly what he wanted—a chamber with an antechamber where Troy could unobtrusively keep guard over Deirdre. The room being on an upper floor, she could not escape through the window, not even Deirdre, who climbed like a cat. Troy arrived while Kieran was making inquiries about Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby.
“Oh, yes, sir, we know them well,” the landlord assured him. “I’ll send a lad with a message straightaway.”
Message written with paper and ink supplied by the landlord, Kieran sent Deirdre and Troy up to the room.
“May I go to vespers, sir?” Deirdre asked from the foot of the stairs.
“No,” Kieran said.
The landlord and even Troy looked shocked that he would not allow a young person to go to a church service. He felt his face heat and sighed. “All right, if Troy does not care about going with you.”
“Of course I don’t, sir.” Troy glanced at Deirdre, then back to Kieran. “I’ll see to MacKenzie’s safety, sir.”
“Thank you.” Deirdre’s voice was soft, her eyes bright. She blinked twice, then turned and dashed up the stairs, Troy in her wake.
Kieran had nearly reached the governor’s offices when he realized that the brightness in Deirdre’s eyes had been tears.
Chapter 10
Deirdre leaned on the windowsill and watched Ashford depart from the inn. The trade winds caught his hair and ruffled it like playful fingers. A handful of finely dressed ladies perusing the stalls turned from the displayed wares and watched him instead, their parasols coquettishly shading their eyes. He seemed not to notice them as he stalked straight ahead, a man with a purpose, a commission of great importance. If he’d glanced back just once, Deirdre would have waved to him. But he didn’t, so she watched him until he disappeared from sight.
Her last sight of him.
“Does his family dislike him?” she asked Troy, who sat just outside the open doorway between both rooms.
“No, Miss MacKenzie, I’d say they love him right well.” The straight wooden chair creaked beneath Troy’s weight as he shifted. “His sisters adore him, and his mama is the kindest lady in the world.”
“His father?”
Deirdre needed to know what kind of homecoming he would receive after his seafaring adventures. Or would they view them as misadventures and make him suffer because he’d lost the prisoners?
Troy cleared his throat. “Well, his . . . father can be a stern man. He was a naval officer and expects to be obeyed.”
Deirdre perched on the edge of the high four-poster bed. “And Ashford disobeyed his father, so the man sent him to sea?”
“I can’t say, Miss MacKenzie.”
“Oh, yes, you can. You just won’t.”
Deirdre bounced up and began to prowl around the chamber, running a finger over the surface of the armoire, tracing a leaf on one of the pineapples gracing the tops of the posts, looking out of the window again to see if it really were too far a distance and hard a landing to jump. She doubted Troy would jump after her. And by the time he got outside, she would have lost herself in the crowd.
The church bells reminded her that she had a better plan.
“Do you mind me going to vespers?” she asked.
“No, miss, if you still wish to go.”
“I do.” She wandered to the window and rested her elbows on the sill.
She caught no sign of Ashford in the square, not that she’d expected one, but she did see a hundred other people. They ranged from black to white to brown, even to ivory. Some looked poor and others wealthy. She noticed some large blond men she thought might belong to a Russian vessel, and noted where they headed. A lad in fancy green-and-gold livery rushed toward the inn, a packet in his dark hand. She and her crew could blend into a throng like that and lose themselves.
If she could get them away.
A knock sounded on the door. Troy closed the door to Deirdre’s room and went to answer it. She snatched up the pillows.
Troy opened the door. “That was a lad from the Willoughby plantation. Mr. Ashford will be taking dinner with them and staying the night.”
Deirdre’s heart began to pound, but she kept her voice calm. “Then we can leave for vespers.”
“Yes, miss, but I’m holding your arm the whole time.”
“When we’re outside, yes, but not in the church. I want to pray alone and take communion.”
And pray for forgiveness for all her lies.
Troy nodded his assent, and they made their way through the crowded square to St. Peter’s Cathedral. Only a handful of persons occupied the mostly wooden church, and those looked like they had come in for the cool shade rather than to worship.
Cold rather than cool, Deirdre slipped up the aisle and into one of the pew boxes. Between the high back of the pew and the door to the box, Troy couldn’t see her well. When she knelt, she knew he couldn’t see her at all.
Lord, give me strength, she prayed as the mass began.
Trying not to fidget, she followed the service, though she didn’t have a Book of Common Prayer with her. With so few persons present, no one seemed to be reciting the congregation’s part in voices anyone could hear outside their own boxes. That made the mass seem longer, the droning voice of the priest coming too close to putting her to sleep. Fingers tense on the latch to her door, she waited for the signal for communion.
When it came, she bolted from her box and then forced herself to take a sedate pace up the aisle to the altar. A glance behind her showed a line of worshipers, and Troy hanging back in the church doorway.
She accepted the wafer from the vicar, but before he reached the line of supplicants at the rail, she dropped to all fours to be below the line of pews and thus Troy’s sight, and crawled like an overgrown infant toward the door behind the altar.
A few people gasped. Someone made a noise as though intending to call out, but no one would interrupt Holy Communion—
At the door, she reached up, turned the door handle, and crawled through. On the other side, she stood and ran down the steps to an alleyway. In moments, she was racing for the wharves.
She grabbed the first sailor she saw near a long boat. “Quick. I need to get to the Russian boat before my captain catches me.”
The man laughed, exuding the stench of rum on his breath. “Been where you aughtn’t a’ been, eh? I can help, but it’ll cost you.”
Cost. Of course it would cost, and her gold still lay hidden on the Maid of Alexandria. She had no silver.
But yes, she did.
She twisted off one of her vest buttons. “Solid silver. You can have another one when I’m home free.”
“Well, now.” The burly seaman took the button and bit it with teeth that looked too rotten to bite a pudding. “Seems you’re tellin’ the truth. Get in.”
She dove in, then crouched low on the thwarts to make herself as invisible as possible.
The sailor untied the painter, then jumped in before the boat drifted away from the dock. He looked as weather-beaten as a deck and smelled soaked in rum, but he pulled the oars with sure, strong strokes that sent them skidding across the calm surface of the harbor waters and straight for the Russian ship.
Perhaps because they anchored in a safe harbor and this was broad daylight, no man stood sentry on the Russian brig. Her oarsman wanted to pull off, muttering something about this being a deserted ship and bad luck.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Deirdre could hear the chink of coins and thud of tankards on wood coming from the stern cabin. “They’re below.”
With no time to waste, she scaled the chains and landed on the deck with a thud that still brought no one up to investigate. The echoes of raucous laughter drew her aft, and she swaggered down the companionway ladder and into the cabin.
The laughter stopped. Men stared. One dropped his hand to a cutlass tucked into his three-inch-wide belt.
“Ami,” Deirdre spoke in the French most Russian seamen knew.
“I’m a friend. I need to get away from my present berth at once. Will you take me on as your cabin boy?”
The man stared at her with bloodshot blue eyes. “I do not need a cabin boy. Got too many crew as it is.” Lifting his tankard, he tossed down a handful of cards and cursed in Russian.
One of the other three men at the table scooped up a coin from in front of the captain.
“A passenger then?” Deirdre pressed. “I can pay.”
The men around the table laughed.
“A boy like you can’t afford to pay,” spoke a man with eyes so close together they almost met at the narrow bridge of his nose.
“I can—” Deirdre began.
“Go away.” The Russian captain hunched his burly shoulders against her and began shuffling cards.
Desperate, Deirdre offered Ashford a silent apology and played her best hand. “Please, monsieur. You must understand, my captain wishes to use me as his—” She didn’t know the French word, and blushed at the English one, despite having heard it in many a dockside tavern.
All the men understood her hesitation and blush. Tankards were suspended halfway to mouths and the deck of cards fluttered to the table.
Five minutes later, she had made a bargain and plans.
Kieran barely noticed that the tea was weak and the sandwiches a little stale. It was food cooked on land and, like the noonday meal, divine for that alone. He liked the surroundings, too. Mrs. Willoughby had chosen to serve her refreshments on a shady terrace with roses and jasmine scenting the air in heady profusion. Mrs. Willoughby wore perfume, too, the same violet scent his mother applied with a far lighter hand, and every move her daughters made sent lily of the valley blending with the floral bouquet of aromas until he had to suppress more than one sneeze.
But they were pretty and charming, all three possessing huge dark and sparkling eyes and complexions they had managed to keep flawless and creamy despite the subtropical sun.
Unlike Deirdre’s bronzed yet flawless skin.
He pushed thoughts of Deirdre aside. She disturbed him and was better left out of his brainbox until tomorrow morning.
He turned to Mrs. Willoughby, née Moira Kate McIntyre in Savannah, Georgia, when it had been a colony. “So, madam, you do remember my parents?”
“I knew the instant we learned that an Ashford had captured that American ship that you had to be related.” She preened. “I was composing a message for you when yours arrived. So thoughtful of you to pay us a call. My husband will be delighted. And my daughters always enjoy company.”
They looked as though company frightened them to death, as they hid their faces behind their teacups and blushed.
He smiled at them, which made them blush even darker and bow their heads.
“My husband doesn’t like them meeting the military men,” Mrs. Willoughby explained, “which means they meet few gentlemen at all. I was going to send them to my family in Savannah, but then this wretched war began . . . But you’re not interested in our troubles. Tell us about capturing that American schooner.”
He shrugged. “It was nothing. They were not prepared to fight and surrendered easily.”
“But their vessel is so odd looking,” the elder daughter whispered. “The masts look about to fall down.”
“She is fast,” Kieran said.
He felt oddly defensive of the Maid. She was not odd; she was graceful and beautiful.
But they would think Deirdre was odd, when he thought she was also graceful and beautiful.
“They were becalmed,” he added, “or we never would have caught them. We had sweeps.”
And three times as many men.
“Will they all go to prison?” Mrs. Willoughby asked.
“I am afraid that will be so.”
“Your father must be so proud of you,” the younger Willoughby daughter murmured.
“Mama has told us that he was in the British Navy.” The elder daughter—Mary?—grew a little bolder. “But you chose not to go into the military?”
“My mama would never have approved,” Kieran said.
That made the ladies laugh.
“She always was a peace-loving little thing.” Mrs. Willoughby reached for the teapot and rose to refill cups, her silk gown swishing like the breeze through the wisteria vines giving them shade. “Is she still shy?”
“No, madam, she is the friendliest lady in the county. Our house is constantly filled with guests.”
She, at least, would welcome Deirdre with open arms. His sisters would, too. But his father? He would be polite at the least.
“Ah, yes, she was kind.” Sadness crossed Mrs. Willoughby’s face. “I hated putting her on that naval vessel with your father practically a stranger to her, but it was for the best.”
“Apparently so.” Kieran smiled when he considered his parents’ marriage. “They are devoted to one another.”
“Wonderful.” Mrs. Willoughby’s face lit. “Your mama has written, of course, but letters do not always tell a true tale. Now do tell us all about your home and your sisters.”
Kieran obliged, remembering what he could about current fashions, since the ladies seemed to like that topic best. The early evening lazed on. He would have felt relaxed and comfortable except for concern about Deirdre.
When the ladies went upstairs to dress for dinner and prepare for the imminent arrival of Mr. Willoughby and a handful of guests, Kieran went for a stroll through the gardens. The clean scent of pine refreshed his nose after all the floral perfumes, which helped to clear his head enough to think of what about those last moments with Deirdre nagged at the back of his mind.
He paused at the end of a crushed-shell path and gazed toward where a distant sparkle spoke of the sea not far off.
Why else would she have tears in her eyes when saying good-bye to him if she did not fear the marriage? If not fear, at least regret its necessity. Yet if she did not want it, why did she not simply say so? Deirdre was not shy or afraid to state what she did or did not like. Yet when she had said good-bye to him—
“Good-bye,” Kieran cried aloud. “God be with you. Farewell. Oh, Deirdre, you would not.”
But of course she would.
Spinning on his heel, he loped back to the house to make his apologies to the Willoughbys and ask for fast transport back to St. George’s.
Since the sailor rowing the longboat looked about to lose consciousness from his consumption of rum, Deirdre used all but one of her buttons to make a trade with him—a supply of rum, a dagger, and the use of his boat. She used the last button to send the bottles of rum to the Maid with a note supposedly from Kieran stating that he would be away and for them to enjoy themselves despite being stranded on the schooner. She hoped the men were bored enough and resentful enough for not being allowed to go ashore that they would not reject th
e rum.
She didn’t want to physically harm any of them to achieve her goal. Getting them drunk was a far lesser crime. Kieran wouldn’t punish them for that, especially with the forged note to justify their actions.
She hated waiting another hour before returning to the clipper, but needed time for the rum to take effect. With every moment that passed, she feared that Troy would arrive or go out to the Maid. She counted on him not expecting her to return to the vessel, and she calculated that he would go for Kieran at once.
At the end of the hour, with the sun beginning to slope toward the sea in red-gold glory, she rose from her crouch on the bottom of the longboat and began to row. She’d never done that alone, and the strain made her muscles ache, then quiver with fatigue. Her shirt became soaked with sweat, and she discarded her vest. Only half a dozen more yards. Three. Two . . .
The longboat bumped against the Maid’s side. A blurry-eyed Jones leaned over the rail. “Whozh there?”
“Deirdre MacKenzie,” she called up. “Mr. Ashford is occupied for the evening, but Troy’ll be along soon.”
She hoped she was wrong in that.
“Did the oranges arrive?” she asked, as she grabbed the chains and clambered aboard.
He made a face as though about to be ill. “Stinkin’ up the main cabin.”
“I’ll go fetch some then. Mr. Ashford wants the prisoners to have some right away. Will you escort me down with them?”
“Aye, if ’tis what Mr. Ashford wants.” Jones sagged against the rail.
Deirdre glared at him. “You being drunk on watch is not what he wanted when he sent the rum. Give me trouble and I’ll tell him. I’m going to be his wife, you know.”
Shock twisted his homely features, and he took a long pull at the rum bottle. “Mercy on us, Mr. Ashford marrying you.”
Unreasonably annoyed, Deirdre turned her back on him, stalked down to the cabin, and locked the door behind her. She could scarcely move for the crates of oranges and lemons stacked on table, chairs, bunk, and deck. No matter. She didn’t need to move far. Only to the cupboard behind the table.
My Enemy, My Heart (The Ashford Chronicles) Page 12