Heart Of The Sea Wolfe Page 3

  “So where are you originally from, Mr. Dorian? I can’t quite place your accent.”

  “Here, there, and everywhere.”

  “What is your profession?”

  “You are a woman of many questions, Miss Payne.”

  “Just trying to make conversation. Would you rather I leave you alone?”

  “No.” He pushed against his good foot so that he was in a more upright position on the sofa. “I’m grateful for your company.”

  She looked discreetly at his hands. He wore no wedding ring and unreasonably, that cheered her. The hands were strong, clean and well-kept. Large. Lord, but he was well-made, and it annoyed her that she was responding to him in ways that women had responded to well-made men throughout eternity. She barely knew him.

  Hadn’t she learned her lesson after Richard?

  That it was pointless to pursue romance?

  That men couldn’t be trusted when it came to matters of the heart?

  “And what of you?” he asked. “You’re young and pretty. Why no husband?”

  She looked away. “I was betrothed once, but ... it didn’t work out.”

  “What happened?”

  “You—” she looked up and met his eyes, grinning— “are a man of many questions.”

  He laughed then. “I deserved that.”

  Their gazes met and something passed between them, a seed of something so fragile that she wasn’t even sure it was real. She blushed and looked down at her hands, suddenly finding an interest in the crescent of her thumbnail. A log popped in the fire, hissed, and sent out a shower of sparks.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked, when the moment grew awkward and heavy. She finally dared to look back up at him. “More cider?”

  Again, that faint smile. “Actually, I’m quite famished. Whatever you have cooking out in the other room would, when it’s ready, go far toward improving my spirits.” He rubbed at his jaw, the smile growing. “Though I must confess that finding myself in the company of a spirited and pretty woman is a better balm to my mood than any medicine a physician might prescribe.”

  “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Dorian?”

  His grin spread, warming her right down to her toes. “I might be.”

  “And I might be late getting supper on the table if I stay here and allow you to continue.” She got to her feet, somewhat nervous and shaken without knowing why, though it stood to reason that today was not a day for flirtations of any sort after the horrific events that had transpired earlier. That she had no right to enjoy the attentions of a handsome man when so many had died. Yes, that was what it was. Nothing to do with Richard. Nothing at all.

  “Have I offended you, Miss Payne?”

  “No, Mr. Dorian. I can assure you it takes far more than that to offend me.”

  She turned and went out of the room. Coward. Any other woman would have stayed and allowed the conversation to lead where it may. Any other woman would have enjoyed the company of a virile, attractive man and allowed herself to dream, if only for just a little while. Any other woman would have had to be dragged away from him, kicking and screaming.

  He could not know she was only trying to protect her heart.

  And she could not know that his smile faded as she stood up, and that his gaze grew raw with hunger as he watcher her go.

  A hunger that had nothing to do with chicken stew.

  Chapter 4

  “By God, Brendan! Where the hell is he? Where are both of them? This cannot get out!”

  Vice-Admiral Sir Geoffrey Lord paced the cabin of his great flagship, his rheumy old eyes hard with worry and the rolled curls of his peruke bouncing with every step he took. He shot a glance at the young frigate captain who stood, hat under his arm, at the door of the great cabin, watching him. “Oh, do come in. Sit down and drink with me, my nerves are about shot.”

  “You know, sir, that I don’t drink.”

  “You’re the only Irishman I know who doesn’t drink.”

  “Half-Irish, sir. My father was as English as you.”

  “Then have a cup of coffee, damn you. By God, this isn’t a damned restaurant, you ought to drink what you’re damned well given, Merrick.”

  Merrick grinned. “Give me coffee, sir, and I’ll drink it.”

  Sir Geoffrey thinned his lips and tried to glare at his favorite subordinate, but Merrick had a way of getting beneath his defenses and undermining his crankiness when other men just irritated him all the more. And right now, sick with worry, Sir Geoffrey needed all the solace he could get.

  Captain Brendan Jay Merrick took the seat his admiral indicated, laid his hat down, and accepted the dark brew that the admiral’s steward poured from him. A good many of his fellow captains were quite terrified of Sir Geoffrey, but he saw beneath the crustiness of his superior and knew him to be a fair man even if he did tend toward the cantankerous.

  “So tell me again what you two cooked up,” Sir Geoffrey said. “And why didn’t Captain de Wolfe return as asked? I sent a messenger to fetch him back the moment Gage made known to me his plans to send his army out to the countryside. He should have been back by now. They both should have been back!”

  “Perhaps the messenger was waylaid by the rebels, sir, and never delivered your orders.”

  “Which would mean the damned rebels know that not only is my nephew out there in their midst, but so is a decorated officer of the King’s navy. You know, Brendan, that they have a network of spies as broad as our own. And you know that after Gage, damn his eyes, blew the top off the bee hive with this attempt to seize the powder and ammunition at Concord, that no man who serves the King is safe in that countryside. Oh, this worry is not good for my heart!”

  “I trust, sir, that Dorian can look after himself.”

  “Of course he can! It’s that damned nephew of mine whose loose tongue and rutting cock will end up being the death of me, if not himself!”

  “Captain de Wolfe will extricate the lad from the situation, sir, with nobody the wiser, whether or not that missive to return ever reached him.” He grinned, trying to ease his admiral’s mind. “Have faith, sir. After all, he’s not called the Sea Wolfe for nothing.”

  * * *

  Ten miles west of where the admiral and his favorite captain sat discussing the fate of two missing officers, Mercy was ladling stew from the great iron cooking pot into pewter bowls and laying them down on the table.

  She was keenly aware of their guest as he hobbled in from the parlor, using the fireplace poker as a cane. Her senses thrummed at the sight of him, and she had an insane urge to check herself in the looking glass, to tuck a stray curl back up into her mob cap, to make sure she looked her best. Oh, what was wrong with her? She turned her back on him, pulling bread from the bake-oven and trying to put her mind on something else. She returned to the table and there he was leaning against his chair, waiting for Elias, Mother and herself to take their seats before finally easing himself down into his own. He was back in his shirt, which had to be still somewhat damp. Had Mother brought it to him? She must remember to mend it, as she’d vowed to do. She lowered her eyes to her plate. Mother said grace. Shy Elias broke the warm, fragrant bread and passed the basket around. Mercy had little appetite, and even less when she happened to glance across the table and catch their guest watching her.

  She was not so young that she didn’t know the look a man got in his eyes when he wanted a woman, and not so old that she didn’t appreciate it.

  And this man, this Dorian—he wanted her.

  And she, God help her, wanted him.

  Oh, they both might be skirting the issue, but the mutual desire was there, undeniable and loud. Mercy had seen what he looked like beneath his clothing, and the memory of his bare, powerful shoulders and corded arms was still fresh in her mind. He had eyes that were both piercing and expressive, appearing to change color depending on the light. When she’d cut the musket ball out of his arm and the sun had been slanting in through the window, the
y’d been almost blue. When he’d been flirting with her, they’d looked more green. Now, with the room growing dark with the approach of evening, the fire throwing a warm golden light over the table, they leaned toward brown.

  Why are you thinking so much about his eyes?

  She dug her spoon into her stew, stirred it to try and cool it, and cornered an errant carrot.

  Because it was better to think of his eyes than his mouth. Perfectly chiseled. Proud and sensual. Taciturn, but able to lift in an occasional half-smile he seemed unable to rein in.

  What would it be like to be kissed by such a mouth?

  To hear it speak her name in that deep, warm tenor?

  Mercy....

  Mother’s question interrupted her thoughts. “So what is your profession, Mr. Dorian?”

  “A bit of this, a bit of that,” he said evasively. “But most lately, child-minder, I daresay.”

  Elias, a child himself, widened his eyes and finally found his voice. “Are you a schoolmaster, sir?”

  “You might say that.”

  Mercy studied him. He didn’t look like a schoolmaster. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Dorian?”

  “Only that I was asked to come to Concord to extricate a young man from folly before his actions could bring disgrace to his family name.”

  “And were you successful?”

  “I was not.” He broke a piece of bread and buttered it. “But perhaps it was a wild goose chase all along.”

  “What was his name?” Mercy asked.

  “George.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall and fair-haired, with gray eyes, a stubborn chin and a petulant manner that makes one want to thrash him about the ears.”

  “Perhaps he managed to make it to Boston with the rest of our boys,” Mother said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “In which case I’m certain his experiences will have caused him to grow up in a hurry.”

  “One would hope,” their guest said. “But given that I undertook this task as a favor, you can imagine my worry that something has happened to the lad, hence, my desperation to get back to Boston.” His face grew determined. “It is not in my nature to fail, nor to disappoint those who have placed their trust in me.”

  “Has he family there?”

  “Yes.” Their guest looked down, veiling his eyes. “For the time being, that is.”

  He was spooning the last of the stew from his bowl. “Would you like another helping, Mr. Dorian? No, no, don’t get up, I’ll get it. You want that ankle to rest, not ask more of it than it’s ready to give.”

  “Thank you. You are kinder to me than I deserve.”

  She rose, picked up his bowl and turned, and in that moment her toe hit the edge of the floorboard where they hid their valuables and Mercy found herself pitching forward toward the fire. She didn’t even have time for a scream. A crash behind her as she fell, the empty bowl flying from her hands to hit the brick and a strong hand snaring her arm a second before she would have landed face-first in the flames, jerking her backward to safety.

  It was Mr. Dorian. How he’d managed to get out of his chair and grab her that fast, especially on an injured ankle, defied explanation or belief.

  “Are you all right, madam?”

  Mercy was white. And then, as humiliation set in, her skin flamed red.

  “I’m fine, thank you. Just ... just clumsy.” She pulled away and brushed at her shirts, unable to look him in the eye, her skin tingling with warmth where he’d touched it and the memory of his fingers, his hard and saving strength, imprinted on her arm. “Thank you, sir.”

  He nodded and settled back down in his chair before picking up his spoon once more. He looked at the edge of the floorboard for a little too long, then up at Mercy with eyes that were, in the light of the fire, amused. “You ought to nail down that floorboard, Miss Payne.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a cajoling smile. It could be rather dangerous.”

  Chapter 5

  Mother cornered her as soon as supper was finished, coughing and making head-jerking motions toward the back door as Mercy began clearing the plates. “Come,” her motions indicated. “Now.”

  Mercy, watching their guest showing Elias how to tie various knots, followed her mother out into the night.

  “He knows,” Mother said, gripping her hands together and wringing them. “I saw the way he looked at that floorboard. I saw the speculation come into his eyes, and he’s suspicious. Oh, Mercy, what will we do?”

  “Nothing, Mother.”

  “Nothing? If he decides to investigate that floorboard in the middle of the night and finds out what’s hidden beneath it—”

  “I’ll sleep in a chair near the keeping room fire.”

  “How can you be so calm? If he finds what’s underneath that board, he could steal it at best or tell our neighbors at worst, and then what? We’ll be in trouble, Mercy, big trouble for not donating it to the rebel cause, or melting it down to make bullets, or—”

  “He’s not going to find it, Mother.”

  “Oh, and don’t think I’m not mindful of the way he’s looking at you, either! You be on your guard with that one, daughter, or he’ll break your heart and throw away the pieces!”

  “He can’t break what’s already been broken.”

  “Yes, well, you just mind yourself, Mercy. There’s something off about that man, something I can’t quite put my finger on, and I won’t rest easy until he’s out of here and on his way back to Boston.”

  * * *

  The stew had been wonderful, followed by a fine apple pie and the worst tea that Dorian had ever had the misfortune to taste.

  Brewed from dandelions, he was told, and he didn’t doubt it.

  It was all he could do not to pull a face at the sacrilege that had been done in the name of the word, tea. ’Sdeath, if it weren’t for the pretty Miss Payne, a treat for the eye if ever there was one, he’d be crawling the walls, or just plain crawling, full-stop, to get out of this place, since he couldn’t damn well walk. She was the only thing that made being out here bearable. And oh, the feel of her as he’d grabbed her when she’d tripped over the floorboard, saving her from burning and disfigurement a second before it would have been too late....

  His gaze drifted to that floorboard. Anyone else but himself—and Mercy Payne’s delicate foot—might have missed the slight rise there, as it blended rather discreetly with the rest of the sanded, planked flooring. But it was Dorian’s obligation to notice things, things that others might miss, and yes, he’d noticed that raised edge.

  Just as he’d noticed how the elder woman’s face had paled at his comment about nailing it down. She hadn’t shown such fear when her daughter had nearly landed in the fire.

  Interesting.

  Across the table from him, the boy, his brow furrowed in concentration, gazed helplessly at the bit of rope his sister had procured earlier at Dorian’s request.

  “I’m confused about this knot, Mr. Dorian. What did you call it again?”

  “A bowline. And you wouldn’t be the first young man to find it challenging. Here, let me show you again.”

  He got up, hobbled to where Elias sat in his chair, and leaning over him, placed his little hands on the hemp, guiding him. “First you make a loop, placing the bitter end at the top ... like so. Then you take this other end, pass it through the loop and around the back—see? And now, watch ... back down through the hole, like this. Now, you try.”

  The boy nodded, bit his bottom lip in concentration and, guided by Dorian’s hands over his own, managed the knot.

  “I did it!”

  “Yes, you did. Well done!”

  “How did you learn how to tie knots, Mr. Dorian?”

  “Oh, I’ve learned a lot of things in my day. Shall I show you another?” He untied the knot. “How about the figure-eight?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  It was too hard to stand on his blasted ankle, though truth be told it felt better than it had some hours earlie
r, and Dorian hoped that a good night’s sleep would make it as good as new in the morning. Or, failing that, at least capable of carrying his weight so that he could, if need be, walk back to Boston, though ten miles on the ankle was probably asking a lot of it.

  Damn.

  He showed the boy the figure-eight, smiling as the light brown eyes lit up with pride upon mastering the knot.

  “That one was much easier, Mr. Dorian!”

  “You’re a smart lad. And now that a few moments have gone by, show me that you remember how to tie the bowline.”

  Elias showed him, and Dorian laughed, unable to help himself. He liked children, and he knew how to guide, instruct, and deal with homesick midshipmen missing their mamas as they embarked on their first sea voyage. Elias was easy by comparison.

  He eased himself back down into his chair, sighing in relief as the weight came off his foot.

  “So do you really have to leave us so soon, Mr. Dorian? Mercy says that Boston will be a dangerous place right now, what with the Redcoats there. And they’re going to be mad at us now, after what happened today.”

  “Yes, Elias, I’m afraid I must. I’ve imposed enough upon your hospitality.”

  “You should stay, you know.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I think you and Mercy would suit. I saw the way she was looking at you.” The boy grinned lopsidedly. “And, the way you were a-looking at her.”

  Dorian had just been lifting his cup of now-cold tea, which rendered it all the more disgusting, and it was all he could do not to choke on it at the boy’s keen observation.

  “You see too much, Master Payne.”

  “I see what’s before me, I do.”

  “And why isn’t your sister married? She is quite beautiful, you know.”

  Elias shot a glance toward the door out of which his mother and sister had gone, and lowered his voice. “Oh, she had a man want to marry her, once. I didn’t like him much.”