Finn let the others move ahead. He waited until Catherine stepped into the aisle and approached the Emersons. ‘Might I walk you back, Catherine?’ he asked quietly.
The eyes that searched his face were worried. He wanted to erase that concern. What did she imagine he had to say? ‘I’d like that.’ Catherine stepped away from her parents before they could answer for her. She slipped an arm through his and let him lead her away, careful not to light any clothing on fire with their flames.
Outside, they blew out their candles. ‘Make a wish, Catherine,’ Finn whispered, closing his own eyes and blowing out the flame.
‘That’s only for birthday candles,’ Catherine corrected.
‘I think Christmas candles count too,’ Finn argued softly. He drew her apart from the crowd gathering and dispersing in the churchyard. It was too cold for anyone to linger for long, but for now, the crisp air felt good after the heat of bodies in the church. Overhead the sky was midnight velvet pierced by the diamond sparkle of stars—a silent night, a holy night, a night of love and for love.
‘I need to tell you why I didn’t come on the Yule log cutting this afternoon.’
Catherine paled, her eyes going to the toes of her boots where they peeked from beneath her dress. ‘I thought so. You seemed like you had something on your mind when you picked me up yesterday.’ She looked up and bit her lip.
‘I did. It’s not something a man shares easily or without risk and I needed more time to work up my courage, I suppose.’
‘I’ve never known you to need any more courage than what you already had.’ Catherine gave him a half-smile, although he could see the effort cost her. Whatever she thought was coming, she was trying to make it easy for him. ‘You were brave enough the day you climbed the apple tree. I might still be up there.’
Finn gave a short laugh. ‘I was very scared that day. I don’t like heights, you know.’
She smiled, a little wider this time, and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘I know and you did it anyway.’
Over her shoulder he was aware of Lady Eliza staring, her cheeks flushed before his mother put an arm about her and led her away to a sleigh. Catherine turned and followed his gaze.
‘Did you have something to tell me about Lady Eliza?’ Catherine prompted. ‘A happy announcement, perhaps?’ Finn could hear the strangled pain and he understood. She’d thought he’d come to tell her he was marrying Lady Eliza. Some of the guilt he felt in the church came racing back. He’d not meant to hurt Catherine. Oh, how differently she must see events than he did! The realisation galvanized him into action.
‘I’m not going to marry her,’ Finn said, relishing the relief that flooded Catherine’s face. ‘I’m going to marry you. If you’ll have me,’ he added. He rushed on. ‘I know it’s only been a few days, but really we’ve known each other for a lifetime, if you think about it. It’s not all that strange. We don’t have to go on expeditions if you’d rather not. I don’t know if I can stop spouting inconvenient Latin phrases, but I can try. We—’
Catherine put a hand to his lips. ‘Wait, let me answer. You don’t have to explain anything. Yes. Yes, I will marry you and, no, you don’t have to stop the Latin phrases. They’re a part of you. I don’t care if we go or stay, I just want to be with you, wherever you are.’ Then she was crying. ‘I thought...’
‘I know what you thought.’ Finn gripped her gloved hands between his. ‘I didn’t mean for you to think that. Please, Catherine, don’t cry any more.’
She looked up at him. ‘I love you, Finn Deverill.’
‘Te amo, Catherine. I love you,’ Finn said, enunciating each word carefully because when a man tells a woman he loves her for the first time, he wants to remember it his whole life. When that man was Finn Deverill, he wanted to remember it in English and Latin.
They were alone in the churchyard. Far ahead of them, the sounds of carols drifted back from the sleighs. Assured of their solitude, Finn bent his mouth to hers and kissed her, once for love, twice for for ever under the Christmas sky. When he’d wondered what the holidays held in store for him, he’d never imagined this, but the things one can’t imagine often make the best gifts of all for precisely that reason.
* * * * *
The Captain's
Christmas Angel
Margaret McPhee
Dear Reader,
Christmas is a time for hope and trust. It is a time when the magical sparkle of miracles is in the air, and also a time when people travel far to celebrate with family and friends. These four separate strands weave together in The Captain’s Christmas Angel.
I was inspired to write the story while I was watching seals play in the sea and spotted an open-water swimmer in the distance. I did a double take through my binoculars but I wasn’t imagining it; some hardy soul had braved the chilly water of the Firth of Clyde for a swim. It set me thinking of a man alone and close to drowning in the middle of the ocean, and the woman who spots him from the deck of a passing sailing ship. The man became Daniel Alexander, the hero in The Captain’s Christmas Angel, and the woman, Sarah Ellison, my heroine. And I got to write another story about the sea, which I love! I love its smell, the way its colors reflect the sky, and the speed and diversity of its changing moods.
I would like to thank Jim Allen for all his help and advice on nautical matters, and for answering my numerous questions with patience and good humor. Any mistakes are my own and I hope that Jim and all other mariners, past and present, will forgive me the liberties that I’ve taken for the sake of romance.
So here is Sarah and Daniel’s story, of love and miracles and angels, at this special time of year. May your Christmas be happy, and may your own tall, dark and handsome First Footer bring you all the very best for the New Year! You can find out more about my writing at www.margaretmcphee.co.uk.
With warmest wishes for the season,
Margaret McPhee
DEDICATION
For Helen—hope you like the extra special hero!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter One
November 1807
The sun was low in the clear winter sky as Sarah Ellison scanned the expanse of ocean before her. Water lapped against the bow of the boat, making a rhythmic slap against the planks of oak, and the rock of the vessel was slow and easy. Sarah’s stomach began to settle. She breathed in the cool fresh sea air, tasting the tang of saltiness against her lips, and felt glad that she had abandoned the cramped, dim cabin below.
A chill wind was blowing, playing with the ribbons of her bonnet and nipping at her cheeks. In the distance the water was as pale and smooth as the blue silk that made up her favourite evening dress, but closer it dulled to grey and crowned small waves white. She contemplated the journey that lay ahead, crossing the Atlantic Ocean to take her back to England, and knew so late in the year a poor choice for a good crossing. But Sarah had every wish to be gone from New York before Christmas.
She looked again into the distance. The vastness of the ocean soothed her. The water was polished like a looking glass, its surface unbroken save for one small dark shape. Her eye focused on the shape. She peered harder, wondering what it was—a whale or dolphin, or, more likely, a seabird. But it was none of those things. The realisation kicked her heart to a gallop. With a gasp she turned, calling as she ran.
‘Mr Seymour! There is a man in the water! Over there, in the distance!’
James Seymour, the sea-worn first mate, glanced where she pointed, removed his pipe from his mouth and regarded her with an expression of weary patience. ‘The Angel has carried many passengers alongside
her cargo in her crossings of the North Atlantic and you would be surprised at just how many of them fancy they see men, and more, within this here ocean. Rest assured, ma’am, there’s nothin’ out there save the fishes.’
Sarah’s eyes swivelled to where the shape had bobbed. There was only the endless stretch of water.
‘Just a trick of the light, ma’am.’ Mr Seymour turned away.
Sarah’s gaze returned again to the empty waves. She saw him then, quite clearly in the distance. There could be no mistake. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Look!’
Mr Seymour peered at where she pointed and, with an exclamation beneath his breath, was off and bellowing for the captain.
Sarah kept her gaze on the man. Each time he slipped beneath the surface the breath caught in her throat, only releasing when he bobbed up again.
His arm raised, reaching towards her.
Sarah responded, reaching to him, as if their two hands could meet, as if she alone could save him.
‘Hold on,’ she whispered, knowing that he would not hear even had she screamed it at the top of her voice. The distance was too great, the wind too strong.
In the background, voices shouted amidst the clatter of the crew’s footsteps. Wood creaked, ropes slid, canvas billowed and cracked in the wind. The Angel was changing course, tacking into the wind so that she might reach the stranger.
‘Hold on. Just a little longer,’ she willed the man. ‘We’re coming.’
The schooner crept closer, defying the wind to reach him. As the distance diminished she saw him more clearly. Dark hair, slick and sodden. A pale face. A white linen shirt that both clung and swirled in the water. He tried to swim, but his strength was spent and the current too strong.
‘Please God...’ Sarah prayed. ‘Please.’ It was all she could do other than stand helpless and watch his struggle while the jolly boat was lowered on to the waves.
Two men rowed out to fetch him, catching hold of him, pulling him and a gallon of seawater into the little boat, bringing him back to the Angel and safety.
The sailors quietened, the murmur of voices dropping away. She was right there when they laid him on the wooden deck.
Even laying his length she could tell he was a tall man, used to activity and well formed. His feet were bare, his dark breeches hugged tight around the muscled length of his legs. He wore neither coat nor waistcoat, only the white shirt transparent against the flesh of his chest and gaping wide at the nakedness of his throat.
Her eyes slid higher to his face. Her heart stumbled and missed a beat, then raced all the faster. His eyes, which were staring into hers, were the colour of the ocean from which they had fished him, pale and blue and piercing. Something arced between them. Something that Sarah had never felt before. Time stood still. Seconds became aeons. Until, eventually, his eyes flickered shut and he was gone. Even then she could not look away, but continued to stare at the pale skin that glistened with water and the dark hair slicked back smooth...and the bloody gash that stood jagged and stark at the edge of his forehead.
Her mouth was dry as a desert. ‘Is he...?’ The words faltered against lips that were almost as bloodless as his. Her fingers curled tight, the nails cutting into her palms.
The captain glanced up, noticing her for the first time. ‘This isn’t a sight for a lady’s eyes, Mrs Ellison. We need to get him below and warmed up if he’s to survive. You should return to your cabin, ma’am.’
But she could not move. Her eyes returned to the man who lay so limp and still upon the damp deck, seawater seeping from his clothing.
‘Mrs Ellison...’ Captain Davies urged.
It took real will-power to walk away. ‘Of course, sir.’ With a nod of her head she returned to her niece and maid in the cabin below, but in her mind remained the image of a man who had defied death in the Atlantic ocean on a cold November day.
* * *
The first thing that Daniel Alexander became aware of was the pounding in his head. In those initial few seconds he thought that he was still aboard the Viper, held captive by Higgs. But as the foggy confusion cleared he remembered the events of those last hours and exactly what Higgs had done.
Somehow, Higgs had failed. God only knew how.
Daniel kept his eyes shut and tried to gauge his surroundings. There were voices, two men talking quietly. He listened.
‘There was naught on him to give a clue to his identity,’ said the first voice.
‘Well, he’ll no doubt tell us who he is and what exactly he was doin’ floatin’ around out there all covered in bruises and cuts...if he ain’t lost his memory, that is,’ replied the second, with a West Country accent.
‘As like he cracked his head when he was up the riggin’ on watch. Probably went into the water while it was still dark. No one to see him, if the rest of the crew were asleep.’
The other—older, if the gravel of his voice was anything to go by—man snorted. ‘If he’d been in the water that long he’d be dead. And he’s no ordinary seaman. Look at his hands.’
Daniel knew they would be staring down at him.
‘He’s a gent, that one.’
‘Then what the hell was he doin’ swimmin’ in the Atlantic?’
‘Now that’s the question, lad.’
Daniel had heard enough. Whoever the men were, they neither worked for Higgs nor knew who he was. Ignoring the ache in his head, he cracked his eyes open and looked up at the men. One was perhaps thirty years his senior, grey-haired, sinewy, a man who had spent his life at sea. The other was a youngster, perhaps eighteen years of age, fair-haired and fresh-faced.
‘So you’re awake at last.’ It was the older man that spoke. The boy just stared with curiosity.
‘Where am I?’
‘Aboard the Angel,’ said the same man.
‘The Angel?’ Daniel’s accent was soft in comparison to theirs, his voice, weak. Indeed, he felt as if something had chewed him up and spat him out.
‘A merchant schooner, under Captain John Davies, that transports cargo between America to England. I’m the first mate, James Seymour.’
Daniel gave a nod and then wished that he hadn’t. The pain in his head intensified to make him feel nauseous.
‘Head hurt?’ Seymour asked.
‘Like the de’il himself were pounding upon it.’
‘And it’ll get worse before it gets better.’ The man gave a grunt. ‘So, you’re a Scotsman, are you?’
‘The last time I looked.’
Seymour cracked a smile, then gestured to Daniel’s head. ‘Nasty bump that is. Hit it before you went into the water, did you?’
Trust no one. The words whispered again in Daniel’s mind and he knew, after Higgs, that he would listen to them. There was no way of knowing which men or ships were involved.
Daniel shrugged. ‘Came to in the water with no sign of the ship.’
‘Best fetch the captain,’ Seymour instructed.
* * *
The boy returned with a man who was squat and packed with power. His eyes were sharp as he offered Daniel his hand.
‘Captain Davies of MS Angel. And you are?’
‘Alexander, Daniel Alexander.’ To his relief no one gave a flicker of recognition at the name.
Captain Davies wasted no time in pleasantries. ‘Oakley here tells me you were knocked overboard in an accident.’
Daniel said nothing.
‘From which ship?’
‘Miss Lively.’ It was the name of a merchant ship Daniel had had dealings with in the recent past. Lawful cargo and passengers were not the only things Miss Lively carried.
Davies didn’t even pause to think about it. ‘Never heard of her. Have you, Mr Seymour?’
Seymour shook his head.
‘I thought they would realise I was
missing and come back for me.’ The naivety of his statement fitted the part that Daniel was trying to play.
Davies did not correct him.
‘With my business in New York concluded I meant to travel to London and thus paid passage to Plymouth with Captain Murchie on Miss Lively.’ Daniel could feel the fatigue tugging at him and kept the deception as simple as possible.
‘Murchie?’ Captain Davies’s eyes narrowed as he tried to place the name.
Seymour slid a look at the captain. ‘Friendly with Jim Walker was Mr Murchie.’
‘I see.’ Davies did not pursue the matter, just as Daniel had anticipated. Walker had gone to the gallows for smuggling.
‘I owe you and your crew my thanks, Captain Davies.’ Daniel fought the urge to close his eyes. ‘Mr Seymour said you are for Plymouth. I will, of course, pay my passage in full, if you do not mind waiting until we reach England. At this minute I find myself without funds.’
‘I’ll wait, sir. But it is Mrs Ellison, not me, who deserves your gratitude for she spotted you in the water and raised the alarm.’
Mrs Ellison. The angel in a dying man’s dream. Except he had not imagined her.
‘Your wife, sir?’
‘My passenger. A respectable widow of four years, travelling to Plymouth with her niece.’
‘Then I will be sure to offer my thanks to the lady.’ The words sounded slow and stilted. He wondered if his mouth and his brain were still connected.
The Captain nodded. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Alexander.’ Davies left, taking Seymour and the boy with him.
Daniel could no longer defy the darkness that was creeping to claim him. But in the gloom he saw the face of the angel again and he smiled.
A Sprinkling of Christmas Magic Page 19