Heir To The Sea Page 13

  The footsteps, louder now, just overhead. Quick and purposeful. Clandestine.

  Stephen took a deep breath, steadying himself. He could smell the fear emanating from the sweaty, unwashed skin of his men, and wondered if they could smell it emanating from his own.

  More memories. Of poor Ferguson after he’d been shot down in the last “contest,” then the terrible sound of his screams as one of the pirates had taken his knife to the man’s eyeballs and—

  No, best not to think of that right now.

  Footsteps.

  “Someone’s coming, Captain.”

  “I hear them.”

  “What can we do?”

  But Stephen cocked his head and indicated silence, forgetting that in the hot, choking gloom nobody could see. “The ship…she’s underway.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you just feel it? Someone’s cut her cable. We’re drifting.”

  More urgent footsteps racing the deck above. And then the deck tilting ever so slightly beneath them. Stephen held his breath, hearing water moving outside the hull.

  “We’re definitely underway.”

  Without warning, a violent, ear-splitting roar shattered the quiet as a gun was fired at close range. Iron screamed somewhere overhead.

  “Just when life couldn’t get any better,” Jonas said wryly.

  “Who the hell is firing on us?”

  “Who the hell is sailing us?”

  Stephen flinched as all attempts at stealth on the deck above were abandoned. “Heave! Heave! Heave!” came cries from above, and moments later he felt the eager leap of the sloop as the mainsail, which he could hear being hauled desperately aloft, was sheeted home. Immediately, the vessel leaned hard over on the starboard tack as wind filled the canvas. Another thunderous boom, further away now, perhaps from the brigantine. Cheering, above. Unfamiliar voices, one speaking in the musical lilt of the Caribbean. A heavy Irish brogue. An American, calmly giving orders just above their heads, and then the voice of a woman.

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  Rosalie?

  Moments later the hatch grating was dragged off, lantern light was flooding the darkness, and Stephen McCormack found himself looking into the stunned and joyous face of his sister.

  Chapter 15

  “Stephen!”

  Rosalie all but flung herself down into the cramped hold in her haste to reach her brother. She missed the last step of the ladder and fell sprawling into his embrace, her tears coming fast and hard as his arms went fiercely around her.

  “Rosalie! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I might ask the same of you!” She pushed back, examining his face in the shadowy gloom. Her eyes darkened with concern as she saw how sunburned his fair skin was, the dried blood in his rust-colored beard, the gauntness of his face. Tears stood in her eyes. “Oh, Stephen, what have they done to you?”

  “Nothing compared to what they did to some of the others,” he said cryptically. “But that’s a conversation for another time. How did you get here? You’re soaked to the skin.”

  She flinched as guns thundered from somewhere outside, but the sound was far off now and Stephen could feel the sloop gathering speed beneath them. Whoever was sailing this trim, rapine little ship knew what he was doing, and from what Stephen had seen of the vessel before being herded below, anyone in pursuit would have the devil of a time catching her.

  “After you were taken off by the pirate crew, another ship captured us,” she said breathlessly. “An English privateer. They put the pirates in the hold, and I was still locked in the main cabin. Then we were taken yet again a short time later, this time by a New England privateer. This is his ship. We came here to try and find you, but the pirates captured us, killed most of his crew, and locked us in a cave. We escaped, slipped into the bay and reclaimed the sloop.”

  Stephen stared at her as if looking for damage. “You have had quite the adventure, Rosalie.”

  “And so have you. But we’re both safe now.” She glanced around at the few faces in the gloom and her eyes darkened with sorrow. “Who has been lost?”

  “Edgar Collins.” He looked down. “Old Joe. The Mulligan brothers. Bill and John duPonte. And Ferguson.”

  Rosalie touched his arm, sharing his sorrow. “They were good men. And I’m sure you did all you could to save them.”

  Stephen said nothing. He had indeed done all he could and it hadn’t been enough. Heaven knew a quick death in battle would have been preferable to the brutal games to which the pirates had subjected them. Thank God his sister had not seen what they had endured. Thank God she was safe and by the looks of her, quite unharmed, though her wet gown clung to her in ways that violated her modesty and with his crew all around, that wasn’t sitting well with him at all.

  The light from above suddenly dimmed, and a man dropped lightly down into the hold with them. He was tall and lean and barefoot, garbed in a loose shirt, waistcoat and pantaloons, all of which were soaking wet. His thick dark hair curled haphazardly around a face in need of a shave, a gash on the point of one cheekbone was crusted with blood, and his eyes, quietly observant, were the color of dark ale. He was armed to the teeth, a blunderbuss slung across one broad shoulder, a cutlass at his hip, a knife in his belt and a brace of pistols hanging from what might once have been a cravat, around his neck.

  Stephen tensed, instinctively moving in front of his sister. “Who the devil are you?”

  Rosalie put a hand on his arm. “Stephen, there is no need for alarm, this is Captain Merrick, a privateer from Newburyport, Massachusetts—he and his men saved us, and if it hadn’t been for him we’d all be dead.” She turned hastily to the newcomer. “Captain Merrick, this is my brother Stephen and our crew, Cam Eagan, Jonas Robertson, and Danny, Donald and Dermot McKay.”

  The privateer captain extended a hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain McCormack.”

  Stephen ignored it. “New Englander, eh?”

  “Stephen!” cried Rosalie, mortified.

  “Aye, New Englander.”

  “Federalist?”

  Rosalie’s fingers bit into his arm. “Stephen, where are your manners?”

  But Stephen was still sizing up this newcomer. This newcomer whose eyes lingered just a little too long on his sister, whose voice held a hint of fondness and familiarity for her that told him these two already knew each other better than time and propriety should have allowed. And he didn’t like the man’s faint smile, as though he found Rosalie’s horror and embarrassment about her brother’s directness, amusing.

  Stephen clenched his fists. If his wrists weren’t shackled, that smiling New Englander would be spitting out blood and those perfect white teeth.

  “I think,” said this Captain Merrick, “that having his ship stolen, his men murdered, and then finding himself shackled and tossed in a small, dark hold while being frantic about the fate of his sister is enough to try any man’s manners, Miss McCormack. Did your captors leave a key, Captain?”

  “Aye, aft of the ladder. There’s a nail there.”

  The New Englander turned, found the key and nodded to Stephen, who sullenly lifted his wrists. The privateer fitted the key in the lock, jiggled it and a second later the cruel iron restraints fell away. “I can’t do much about the first of those two insults, but I can certain rectify the third. Now, shall we try this again?” He stuck out his hand once more now that Stephen’s own hands were free. “Kieran Merrick,” he said amiably, and Stephen found his grip firm, hard and sure. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  And just like that the fight went out of Stephen, and so did his initial dislike for this man. This man whose quiet and even temper offered nothing to get his hackles up about, who had ignored insults that a hotter head would have challenged. “The feeling’s mutual,” he returned, suddenly weary. He waited for Merrick to free the rest of his crew but instead the New Englander offered the keys to Stephen.

  Stephen rai
sed a rusty brow in surprise. Merrick would not triumphantly claim any victory here for himself by releasing Penelope’s crew from their shackles; instead, he was bestowing that honor on the merchantman’s proper captain.

  Stephen suddenly felt lower than a cockroach in a bowl of flour. Apologies weren’t quite within his grasp but gratitude certainly was, and he made sure the New Englander knew it as he released each man. “If you hadn’t come along when you had, we would’ve all been dead. We’re in your debt, sir. If there’s anything I and my men here can do to help you sail this ship out of here, we’d like to make ourselves useful.”

  The Yankee took the key back and replaced it on its nail. “I’m short of crew, so your offer is much appreciated.”

  Daniel rubbed at his chafed wrists. “I’m a handy topman, I am.”

  “And I’m the best navigator this side of a compass,” his brother Donald chimed in, stretching and flexing his aching limbs.

  “And I used to serve in the Royal Navy,” said Declan, not to be outdone. “I saw the guns you’ve got aboard, and if you need someone who can shoot the pennant off a topmast with one eye closed, I’m your man.”

  Merrick’s faint smile was spreading when suddenly an Irish voice boomed down through the hatchway above. “Captain, looks like that brigantine has slipped her cable and is coming in pursuit.”

  “As expected. I’ll be right up, Liam. In the meantime, douse the stern lantern and put her cheek right up against the wind. As close as she’ll bear. On that point of sail, they’ll never catch us.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The New Englander began to climb back up through the hatch, but paused. “I’d hoped you all might enjoy a bit of rest and recovery before being put to work,” he said ruefully, “but if you’re up to it, I’ll take you up on your offer to get busy immediately. I expect we’ll outrun them, but if by chance we cannot, I’ll need more hands on the guns.”

  Stephen flexed his cramped muscles. “Never felt better.”

  “Then here, take this.” Merrick handed him the blunderbuss. “I have a feeling things are about to get hot.”

  * * *

  “Damn them, the filthy Yankee whoresons! Damn them!”

  Escobar lunged over the side and onto the deck of his brigantine, his teeth bared and his fists clenched around the hilt of his dagger as he watched the American sloop heeling over in the darkness and taking flight.

  He cursed even louder as the cable was cut and his men raced up the shrouds and out along the yards, trying to get as much sail to the wind as possible, but it was too little, too late. For the first time since they’d stolen the Dutch ship months before, coming over the side and butchering every last one of her crew while she’d been at anchor one night, Escobar cursed her. She was a sturdy beast, strong in structure and armament, but she was no match for that sloop in speed. None at all.

  Escobar wanted the sloop back.

  And he wanted vengeance, not only for what Kieran Merrick had done to Diego but for making him look like a fool in front of his men.

  “Tell me again what happened, Rocco,” he snarled to the man who served as his first mate, trouble-stopper, executioner, and all around brute of all trades. Rocco, who had flung the privateer captain against the mainmast—and not hard enough. Oh, if he could only go back and order that moment all over again…better a dead privateer and the sloop in his hands, than a live one and the sloop making off into the night. Despite his reservations and against his gut instincts, he’d spared Merrick’s life after his Irish underling had insisted he was the only one who knew where Pedro was. Now, unless he caught that cunning bastard, Pedro’s fate and whereabouts were as lost to him as if he’d just had Rocco finish the job in the first place.

  The sloop, gone.

  The only man in the world who knew the whereabouts of his little brother, gone.

  And the wench…oh, the wench….

  He balls tightened and his cock hardened at the very thought of her.

  Also gone.

  He barely heard Rocco’s reply. His fists clenched with rage and his eyes blazed. Nobody crossed him, Escobar, and lived to tell about it. Nobody made a fool of him and went unpunished.

  The wench was from Baltimore, the sloop from Newburyport. It wouldn’t be hard to find them.

  Any of them.

  Chapter 16

  Journal of Captain Kieran Merrick, 20 May, 1814

  A gap in my journal entries as we were captured, imprisoned in a cave, and ’Piper taken by the same lawless brutes who sank Kestrel. Got her back along with what remains of Penelope’s missing crew. Should make Baltimore in good time if these winds hold. During our ordeal, Miss McCormack showed herself to be a woman of strength and character, and I confess that despite my earlier estimation of her, she has quite intrigued me. I must guard my heart well, lest I develop a deeper affection for her than I already have, as I’m certain any warm feelings I may harbor for the lady are not returned and I don’t think I could bear either her rejection or pity should she learn of them.

  Welcome back, Captain, the sloop had seemed to say as he’d clambered up and over the side. I knew you’d come for me. Now, what would you like me to do?

  Racing to take the helm, Kieran had silently communicated his affection, his gratitude, and his response: I would like you to fly.

  Sandpiper had done just that and now, an hour later, she was heeled hard over on the starboard tack, the mainsail taut, the spray bursting high over the bows and streaming in foamy rivulets down her deck to run through the scuppers and back into the sea. His little bird was in full flight indeed. He couldn’t ask for more.

  He gave the helm to Liam and studied the horizon through a night glass. It had been a close thing, their daring escape, the brigantine’s guns banging out in confusion as the pirates had scrambled to get her manned and underway, the campfire on the beach growing smaller and smaller as Sandpiper widened the distance between them. A few last echoes of gunfire across the water, distant flashes lighting up the night, and then nothing but hushed quiet, the sea parting beneath ’Piper’s bows and the wind singing for joy in the rigging above.

  Kieran shut the glass. The horizon was empty. There was nobody out here but themselves.

  Only now did he finally relax.

  Only now did he realize how much his head hurt, how much his back ached, and how exhausted he was. But he dared not go below to rest. Not yet. He put the night glass back in the rack, nodded to Liam at the tiller, and sat down with his back against the truck of one of the guns. There, he let out his breath—which he felt like he’d been holding for an hour—and gazed numbly up at the great wing of the mainsail blotting out the stars above.

  He didn’t know when he closed his eyes and fell asleep to the steady rock and drive of the sloop beneath him. And when he did he dreamed, feeling Miss McCormack’s mouth against his once more, the sweet invasion of her tongue, her soft breath against his cheek. He looked up and past her and there was Dadai leaning against the rail in his customary spot just forward of the helm, his eyes full of mirth beneath that old black tricorn, his presence as near as Kieran’s own heartbeat. Dadai, nodding toward Miss McCormack, his smile warm and approving. Miss McCormack was touching him now, her hands against his shoulders. The dream was fading, and Kieran struggled to hold onto it. But Dadai was leaving, striding toward the bow to give them privacy and glancing over his shoulder with a last little grin as he disappeared into the darkness. Something again touched Kieran’s neck, his shoulder, and he opened his eyes.

  His first sensation was one of unbearable loss when he realized that his father was not there at all, and that it had been nothing but a dream.

  Dadai….

  The second was the realization that Miss McCormack was definitely not a dream, but kneeling beside him, trying to tuck a blanket behind his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” she murmured, adjusting the blanket. “The wind’s gotten a bit chilly, and you didn’t look comfortable.” She sat down
beside him, her eyes tender. “Why don’t you go below, get some rest in a proper bed?”

  “Not until I’m certain we’re out of danger.” He shifted his position, feeling stiff and sore and, for lack of a better word, pummeled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Liam glance toward them, raise a brow above an amused grin, and direct his attention off to larboard. Forward, the Baltimoreans and Joel were smoking pipes and swapping stories, their laughter drifting back to them. Kieran relaxed. “How is your brother, Miss McCormack? And your crew?”

  “Grateful. Relieved. Eager to get home. Thank you again, Captain Merrick, for all that you’ve done for us.”

  “And thank you for the blanket. That was kind of you.”

  “It’s not a fair trade, but the least I can offer at the moment.”

  “You should go below, you know. Change out of those wet clothes before you catch your death of a cold.”

  “I could. But truthfully, Captain… I don’t want to leave the deck, either.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because you’re here.”

  He raised his brows. “Well,” he said, and that was all he could say.

  Awkward silence.

  She tried to fill it. “Unless, of course, you prefer to be alone.”

  “Actually, Miss McCormack, I’ve had quite enough of being alone. I would enjoy your company.” He smiled and raised a corner of the blanket. “Here. Get underneath. ’Twill keep us both warm.”

  They shared a brief smile before she moved closer to him, and he adjusted the blanket so that it covered them both. Beneath its warmth he sought her hand. She accepted it and they sat there, neither saying a word as they both leaned back against the gun truck, just enjoying the fact that they were alive, safe, and yes, together.

  “A beautiful night,” she said at length.

  “Yes,” he murmured, soaking up her nearness. Life felt quite perfect at the moment. Broken, yes, incomplete in a way that was starting to make sense to him, but coming together in other ways that in his heart, he knew led to healing. His gaze returned to the empty place at the rail where his father had so often stood. The moon was rising, a full, glowing orb sailing up out of the sea directly above Dadai’s spot, shining down on it and making its emptiness all the more poignant. Something tightened in the back of Kieran’s throat.