Captain Of My Heart Page 12

  And an emaciated gray wharf cat that prowled around him, rubbing against his bent legs and begging for a handout.

  All this Mira took in at a full gallop, through the lash of Rigel’s mane and the haze of her own mounting excitement. And it was the boy’s misfortune that he chose that exact moment to tire of the cat’s pestering and, rising, kicked viciously at the hapless creature and sent it sprawling across the wharf.

  Poor sixteen-year-old Billy Jacobs never knew what hit him. One moment he was cleaning fish and thinking about one of the wenches who worked at Wolfe Tavern; the next he was flung onto the back and set upon by a fury straight from hell.

  Brawling had never been Mira’s forte, but she could certainly hold her own when she had to. In her wrath Mira was heedless of the fact that Billy outweighed her by a good fifty pounds. What mattered was that he outweighed the cat by a hundred forty!

  “Kick a defenseless animal, will you? Abuse something smaller than you?” Screaming at the top of her lungs, she pummeled his nose, his lips, his cheek, with merciless fists. “How dare you, you worthless pile of puke! Slinking skin of a maggot! I’ll teach you never to do it again!” She smashed him a good one to the side of his eye, landed another to the bottom of his chin. “You think you’re the only critter God put on this earth?” His nose crumpled under her fist and sprayed blood. “I ever see you hurting an innocent animal again, so help me God I’ll kill you, you heaping pile of moose manure!”

  So caught up was she in giving Billy his just desserts that she never saw the gang of shipyard and dock workers, seamen, fishermen—and passengers from the stage—who all dropped what they were doing and came racing headlong down the wharf to see the fight. But she heard them cheering her on, those from the Ashton yards yelling at the tops of their lungs and jumping up and down in wild excitement. “Go, Mira! Go, Mira! Whip ’im good! Bloody his nose s’more! C’mon, Mira! Kill ’im!”

  Billy, howling in pain, was now giving as good as he got, slamming his fist into the side of her chin so hard that he nearly dislocated her head from her neck. She swung viciously back and blackened his eye. Again, and she cut her frozen knuckles on his tooth. They were blind punches, for she saw nothing through her tangled hair, heard nothing but the roar of the crowd cheering her on, felt nothing but a haze of red anger and his cowardly tears diluting the blood that ran from her knuckles. And she was barely aware of her own voice, though she was yelling at a volume that would’ve rivaled anything Ephraim could have produced. “And furthermore, if I ever again hear that you’ve been mistreating your horse—”

  “Stop,” he sobbed, “oh please, for the love of God, stop—”

  “—I’ll make you wish you were never born!”

  “Stop!” He was screaming now, terrified. “Mercy! Mercy!”

  “Cowardly scum!” she raged, slamming him hard. “Do you think that cat could ask for mercy? Or your horse? Damn you for the sniveling rat you are! Only cowards mistreat helpless animals!”

  And as she drew back for another blow, her wrist was seized in a hard and unyielding grip.

  Blinded by fury, she sprang to her feet, already swinging at the idiot who’d dared pull her off a fight she’d clearly been winning. She saw a blur of cloth and lace as his arm flashed up, catching her fist against his open hand before it could connect with his face. She opened her mouth to fire a stream of choice curses at him—

  —and in horror, realized who it was.

  Brendan.

  He stood holding her by both wrists, looking shocked but not surprised. Behind him the crowd sent up a clamor of protest, some muttering, some yelling, but all quite vocal about their dismay that he’d put an end to their entertainment. He ignored them, looking polished and handsome in an elegant green frock coat trimmed in gold brocade—too polished and handsome to be troubling himself with a one-sided dockyard fight. But his expression was an interesting mix of amusement and admiration as he stared down at her. She drew herself up, shoved her hair out of her face—and not knowing what else to do, grinned sheepishly.

  “Hello, Brendan.”

  “What was that you were saying,” he said with a meaningful glance at the sobbing Billy, “about picking on poor defenseless creatures, Miss Moyrrra?”

  Oh, wounds, she thought, beginning to feel quite awkward. She’d done it again, hadn’t she? The awkwardness progressed into downright embarrassment at being caught in such an unladylike pursuit as fighting.

  But damn it all, Billy had deserved it! So what if Brendan disapproved? What did his opinion matter, anyhow?

  It mattered quite a bit, otherwise she wouldn’t feel so awkward and uncomfortable, nor would his mere touch make her remember the kisses that had burned themselves into her memory. She cursed, inwardly. No doubt he thought of her as some little street urchin, with her hair a wall of darkness she couldn’t even see through, and her clothes—her brother’s clothes—ripe with horse-scent. Nearby, Billy, his face in his hands, was sobbing, and she could hear the loud grumbles and complaints of the crowd.

  She tossed her head, and her hair flung itself out of her eyes and over one shoulder and she could see again. A hundred people were staring at her, those who knew her laughing and jostling one another in the ribs, those who didn’t staring in shocked horror when it became apparent that the scrappy little lad who’d been beating up another twice his size was no scrappy little lad at all. There were a few women, who didn’t look quite so amused or admiring as the men. Especially the chubby one in the pink silk gown and thick cape who stood gaping at her just behind Brendan.

  Mira’s wrists were still held in his viselike grip, and she tried to jerk free so that she might reclaim her dignity. “Defenseless?” She attempted a smile and wished she could melt into the cracks between the wharf planking. “Billy is not defenseless. He carries a knife in his belt, and if he’d tried to use it on me, it wouldn’t have been the first time. And would you please—” She renewed her struggles to free herself. “— let go of my wrists? Really, Brendan, I don’t consider you defenseless. I won’t hit you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  He laughed and released her, his expression instantly sobering when Billy, with a strangled sob, lunged to his feet and hurled himself at Mira. Brendan grabbed him before any more damage could be done. “Here now,” he said disapprovingly. “We’ll have none of that. She won the fight fair and square, lad. Go on home now before you two end up bloody well killing each other.”

  “I’ll not be bested by a mere woman!”

  Mira whirled, her thick hair flashing about her face. “You were bested, Billy, and if you lay one finger on me, so help me God I’ll send you spinning on your arse so hard, you won’t be able to get up in the morning!” She hunched her shoulders and tapped her chin, her angry breaths coming out in frosty puffs. “Come on, try it! Hit me, not a poor little cat! C’mon, I dare you, you frigging pile of cow sh—”

  “I said, enough!” Brendan yanked the two apart, his voice sterner than she’d ever heard it. “And that goes for both of you. Young man, take your fish bucket and go. Miss Mira, please tend to your horse. He seems to be eating the adornments on that woman’s hat, and I daresay she’s likely to swoon—”

  The crowd exploded in laughter, and when Mira saw whose hat Rigel was chomping on, she did, too. “Rigel!” She placed two frozen fingers into her mouth and whistled, and the colt lifted his head from Miss Lucy Preble’s perfectly outlandish hair arrangement, a few silk daisies caught helplessly in his mouth. Chewing loudly, he stepped away from his victim—who chose that moment to swoon, exactly as Brendan had predicted—and started toward Mira, his shod hooves booming hollowly upon the wharf as he broke into a trot.

  The crowd roared, and even Brendan’s russet brows lifted in high amusement. But the sulky girl in pink who stood behind him did not smile. In fact, she didn’t look amused at all.

  “Really, Brendan. Can we please go now?” she sniffed.

  Mira, catching Rigel’s bridle, felt the grin freeze u
pon her mouth. The girl had a possessive hand on Brendan’s sleeve now, and she was looking at both Mira and Rigel with a mixture of dislike, disdain, and unfriendliness she made no attempt to hide. She had pale golden hair that was powdered into even more paleness, too much jewelry hanging around what little neck she had, and a very full, pouting mouth that was firmly anchored on both beams. And that wasn’t all she had. A double chin. Short little legs and inflated wrists, also draped with jewelry. Doughy white skin and pudgy hands, one peeping beneath yards of lace, the other tucked into the pocket of her voluminous skirts, as though she was trying to hide it.

  There were enough similarities between the two—the same caramel-colored eyes, the same nose, cripes, even the same way one brow was set slightly higher than the other—that there was no doubt in Mira’s mind just who this girl was.

  Drawing Rigel close, Mira looked from one to the other and said baldly, “Oh, don’t mind Miss Preble. She’s just mad ’cause my brother dumped her last month. But she really shouldn’t be, ’cause he’s since dumped the girl he dumped her for, and I have a running bet with Father that he’ll dump the present one before the month is out. Besides, anyone could see by the way she was looking at Brendan that the swoon was a calculated attempt to get his attention. There’s nothing wrong with her, believe me.”

  Brendan made a strangled sound.

  “’Bout time Matt put a new coat of paint on Mistress’s figurehead, seeing’s how he’s made it a tradition to paint it like his lover every time he decides to find himself a new one.” She jerked her head in the direction of the brig standing anchored in the harbor. “Right now, that figurehead has so many layers of paint on it, I figure it’d take ten workers wielding a hundred chisels a year to dig it all off.”

  Her attempts at humor, though truthful, brought a sparkle to Brendan’s eye, but only further contempt to his companion’s.

  “Brendan,”the girl whined, and tugged at his sleeve.

  “Fan go fóill, Eveleen. Just a moment.”

  “But Brendan, I’m hungry.”

  The crowd, losing interest, began to disperse. “I said, just a moment, Eveleen. I think introductions are in order.”

  “Introductions? You mean you’re acquainted with this . . . this creature?”

  Mira’s hands tightened on Rigel’s reins, and she drew herself up to her full height. “Are you calling my horse a creature?”

  The girl gave her a long, haughty look, the sort a queen might have given a fishwife. There was no warmth in her eyes, just plain, open hostility. “No, I am not. I was referring to you.”

  “Oh, dear.” Brendan caught Mira as she lunged forward. “Please, ladies, we’ll have none of this.”

  Mira struggled in his grip. “She just insulted me!”

  “Brendan, can we please get going? You promised to take me to this Wolfe Tavern for a piece of apple pie.”

  “Eveleen, just a moment, please! Eveleen, this is Miss Mi—”

  “Brendan, you always think of yourself and not me. How would you like to be starving and hungry? But no, you’re so eager to go see this stupid ship of yours that you’re ignorant of my needs. Can we please go? That animal smells most horribly, my feet are numb with cold, and as I’ve told you two times already, I’m hungry.”

  “Smells?” Mira raged. “He does not smell!”

  “I think she was referring to you again,” Billy got in.

  “You shut your damned mouth, Billy, or I’ll shut it for you!”

  “You just try it!”

  “Oh, I plan to, so help me God!”

  “Brendan, I told you, I’m hungry.”

  “Eveleen, wait. Young man, I said go home! Mira, settle down, would you? Faith and troth, this is ridiculous!” He grabbed Mira’s scrawny arm and yanked her away from Billy, hauling Eveleen forward by the elbow at the same time. Mira was a spitting cat, Eveleen an unruffled queen. “Let’s start over. Mira, this is my sister, Eveleen. Eveleen, this young lass is Miss Mira Ashton. She’s the one whose family you’ll be staying with.”

  Eveleen’s pale eyebrow, so like her brother’s in shape and set, lifted at Brendan’s reference to Mira’s gender. Her haughty gaze took in the boyish garb, the unbound hair, the clenched and bloody fists. Airily she said, “Let’s just hope, then, that the rest of her family conduct themselves in a more . . . genteel way. And also that they’ve invited us for supper. I would really love some apple pie . . . Brendan, do you think her servants may have made some for dessert tonight?”

  “I made dessert for tonight!” Mira bellowed.

  Brendan paled and turned his attention toward the vessels in the river instead, seeking her out.

  “Did you? Well, I daresay I hope you washed yourself beforehand. I happen to be very particular about my food.”

  “I would never have guessed!”

  “And what do you mean by that, Miss Ashton?”

  “Get a mirror and maybe you’ll see!”

  “Brendan? Oh, Brendan? Stop looking at those dumb ships, would you? This . . . this person has just insulted me, and I don’t appreciate it at all. Brendan?”

  “Lovely,” he said absently.

  “She is not lovely,” Eveleen sniffed. “She is unkempt and unclean and she’s wearing masculine clothes. Foul-smelling masculine clothes, I might add. I can’t believe you’d suffer her to teach me how to ride.”

  “Suffer?” Mira railed. “You tell me who’s doing the damned suffering!”

  “Brendan . . . Brendan, can we please go now?”

  But he was ignoring them both, staring past the brigs, sloops, and ketches and out toward the middle of the river, where Kestrel, at anchor, stood proudly atop her shadow and rocked impatiently with the pull of the river as it merged with the incoming tide.

  “Lovely,” he repeated, his eyes soft and dreamy. “Thar cinn. Go hálainn. All, and more than I’d hoped for . . . My God, she’ll fly. . .”

  His comment was overheard by a grizzled old seaman who stood biting a hangnail nearby. “Aye, she’ll fly, all right—if she don’t overset herself with the first puff o’ wind.”

  “Brendan, please . . . What’s more important, that ship or me?”

  “Huh?”

  “Brendan, I’ve had it with your fascination with that stupid ship. I’m beginning to think you care more for it than you do for me. And here I am, forced to stand here and suffer this creature’s insults, the cold, and a growling stomach, when you could be taking me to this Wolfe Tavern and buying me a piece of apple pie and a glass of buttermilk to wash it down with, but no, all you want to do is stand here and go all sap-eyed over some silly hunk of wood and cloth.”

  Reluctantly he tore his gaze from Kestrel, who beckoned to him with the sweet seduction of a woman who is more than sure of herself. He wanted nothing more than to take her helm and feel her leaping through wind and wave, to just be with her.

  But Brendan considered himself a patient man; he’d developed a fair share of it where Eveleen was concerned, following that horrible day on Dismal’s decks when Crichton had drawn his pistol, shot him in the chest—and left his sister with a hand that would be crippled for life. It saddened him that she didn’t share his excitement over the schooner, but he alone knew why she was the way she was. Drawing and painting had been her passion—and Crichton had robbed her of that precious gift.

  “Now, Eveleen.” Stepping forward, he slipped his palm beneath Rigel’s warm and heavy mane and gently stroked the animal’s neck. He felt Mira’s gaze upon him and didn’t trust himself to look at her for fear she’d see the desire burning in his eyes. Rigel, however, had no inhibitions. In happy affection, the colt promptly knocked his head against Brendan’s chest and rubbed up and down, leaving little gray hairs all over his impeccable frock coat and tearing one of the enameled buttons off. “I can understand your not caring about Kestrel, but don’t you like the horse?” He grinned hopefully. “This is the one that you’ll be learning on, isn’t it, Miss Mira?”

  Mira nodded r
eluctantly, realizing in dawning horror just what this venture was going to mean.

  “Oh, he’ll do, I suppose . . . A little small, but sort of pretty, I guess. Brendan, the pie? You promised.”

  “He’s an Arabian,” Mira said tightly.

  “A what?”

  “An Arabian. They’re supposed to be small. I can see you don’t know a darned thing about horses!”

  “I didn’t know what an Arabian was either,” Brendan confessed, but Mira took it as defense of his whining sister and felt a stab of indignation. She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it with a snap that was almost audible. Thank God she had such a wonderful sibling in Matt. She didn’t envy Brendan one bit for having to put up with this spoiled witch! And then she realized that Brendan, once he took Kestrel out to sea, wouldn’t have to put up with this spoiled witch any longer.

  She would.

  “What difference does it make what he is? I really don’t care. I never wanted to learn how to ride anyhow, Brendan. Horses smell. They bite. And this one has his tail up. Oh heavens, if he makes a pile, I’m going to swoon.”

  “He’s an Arabian!” Mira yelled.

  “Does that mean his droppings don’t smell, then?” Brendan asked innocently.

  “It means he has a shorter back than other horses! It means his tail is set naturally high! It means that I’m not going to stand here and listen to some spoiled bitch who cares more about apple pie than her brother’s happiness, and a horse that’s the result of centuries of planned and careful breeding!” Tearing free of Brendan’s grip, Mira scooped up the cat, faced Eveleen, and hollered, “And furthermore, if he does leave a pile, I hope it’s smack-dab in the middle of your blasted shoe!”

  She vaulted atop Rigel’s back and, with the newly christened Rescue Effort Number Thirty-Seven tucked safely beneath her arm, tore off down the wharf, Rigel’s shod hooves booming against the planking and sending up clods of snow as he hit the street.

  Damn it to hell and back! She wasn’t going to sit around town and put up with that spoiled hussy! When Kestrel sailed, she’d be on her!