Prize of My Heart (18 page)

Brogan was not going to respond to her plea. Or maybe he could not.

He rubbed his palms up and down her bare arms, trying to warm her. “You’ll be all right,” he assured. “It’s just a chill.”

She raised her face to his and trembled for another reason altogether. Candlelight flickered over the rugged planes of his handsome face. The air stirred with more than just the odor of whale oil from the lamps outside the door.

From without, chains rattled ever so faintly. Yards creaked. The
Yankee Heart
rocked slowly, port to lee, the sea lapping at her sides. Brogan took her chin in hand to tilt her face and gaze more deeply into her eyes.

Lorena’s lashes fluttered closed like butterfly wings as he angled his face down over hers. At that first exquisite press of his mouth, she quivered. His lips skimmed hers with a feathery lightness, and she felt herself drawn with an ebb and flow as timeless as the tide, swept away as easily as if she were a grain of sand.

He released her. His eyes opened slowly, a deep blue.

Lorena reached up and pressed her palms to his lean cheeks, silently thanking Providence for bringing him to her so that she could experience this fullness of heart.

Brogan’s stare deepened, then he turned, and with eyes closed pressed a kiss into her palm.

When he looked again, Brogan found Lorena’s velvety brown eyes had taken on a vulnerable roundness. They reflected something he’d never before seen in a woman’s eyes. Never in Abigail’s eyes, though he’d often searched for it. Here it was, at last.
Love
.

Brogan’s chest constricted with panic. This graceful young dove terrified him. What if he were unworthy of her?

He must tell her the truth. He hated to keep putting it off, but then neither was he prepared to face the consequences of what his news might bring. Naturally a woman in Lorena’s position would feel threatened by the discovery of his blood relationship to Drew. She might withdraw her affection if she thought he intended to take the boy from her. But Brogan no longer had any desire for that. He wanted only his rights as a father. He wanted to be able to watch his son grow, to offer the lad his support and guidance and participate in his upbringing.

He wanted to pursue Lorena without a child’s future weighing in the balance. His feelings for her stirred a thousand doubts and fears within him, yet they grew more affectionate with each passing day. He hardly cared to jeopardize those fragile emotions before his heart had had a chance to come to terms with them.

He pulled away with a hollow laugh. “Don’t look at me so, Lorena. What is there to trouble me? Look around you. I have everything a man could ask.”

“Everything?” she asked. “Mr. Smith says you have not the thing you desire most. Tell me what it is you desire most, Brogan.”

His gut reaction was to kiss her again. The scent of her, soft and ethereal, surrounded him like a cloud. He pressed his mouth to her petal-soft lips, more firmly this time, and as he tasted the promise of her sweetness, he felt something click into place deep within his soul.

When his lips parted from hers, it was with regret. Straightening, Brogan gazed down at her in complete surrender. “Very well. You’ve made your case,” he said. “It is true. There is something I have not revealed to you, but until I can find the words, will you be patient with me, Lorena? We cannot speak tonight. This gale increases, and I must attend to the safety of the ship.”

L
orena woke to a clamor of activity on deck.

She flashed open her eyes as her body responded with alertness to the sounds overhead. Yards creaked and groaned. The wind fairly shrieked through the rigging. The
Yankee Heart
had sprung to life, and she heard urgency in the movements of her crew and their shouts.

Waves thrashed the ship’s side, rocking her bed. Lorena rose onto her elbows for a deep breath, grateful for her empty stomach, which between the motion and the clamor had begun to recall its queasy upset of not so long ago from the vomit powder.

A searing flash of light shone behind the silk brocade drapery, illuminating the cabin with an ominous brightness to reveal Drew’s slumbering form beside her.

A peal of thunder cracked through the cabin and they plunged back into darkness. Drew woke with a cry. The ship rose on a heavy swell, lunging leeward, tilting their bed to such an angle they were pitched, bodies and bed linens, onto the deck.

Suddenly, Lorena feared for their safety.

Her backside crashed down on the hard wooden deck. Drew landed on top of her, swooshing the air from her lungs and leaving her dazed as they slid downhill before the floor leveled back. It took a few moments for the shock to subside enough for Lorena to lift her head and check on the child.

“Drew! Sweetheart, are you all right?”

She breathed with relief at his round, sleepy face and thought he gave a bewildered nod. The cabin was murky, full of shadow. With the porthole draperies closed, only a very dull light shone beneath. “It seems we’re having some weather.”

Gently she rolled him off her, then climbed to hands and knees. She grasped the edge of the bed for support and then helped Drew gain his feet.

Searching about, he rose on plump bare toes and danced anxiously while Lorena dragged herself up off the floor.

“What’s happened to Captain Briggs?” he whined.

“There! See, Drew. Over by the door. Hurry now and collect him. We must be busy about getting dressed. I’d like a word with the captain before he grows too busy with his duties. Where are your socks?”

She found them hidden within the lump of bed linens, a tiny pair of striped knit socks. As she rolled them in her fingers, she could not help but incline an ear outward with increasing alarm. A howling wind rattled the running rigging, and the sails could be heard slatting against the masts.

Hurriedly she donned a checked gingham work dress and emerged from the cabin with Drew to find the great parlor in sorry disarray. Dining chairs had been knocked onto their sides. Books, charts, and navigational instruments from Brogan’s desk lay scattered across the carpet. Her needlework basket was overturned. As a way of showing her gratitude, she’d taken to sewing for the crew, mending tears, replacing missing buttons, darning socks. Now their clothing lay strewn, along with her crewel embroidery and sewing notions. Her thimble, however, remained with her always, tucked deep inside a pocket.

She didn’t know whether to start tidying or immediately go out in search of Brogan. The angry tempest heard raging behind the stern window’s curtains left her flummoxed, and it was Drew who jumped into action by racing across the cabin to the window seats. He pushed aside the draperies to a threateningly somber sky and roiling, churning seas. Only the bleakest of light trickled in.

Behind them, the door to the outer corridor burst open, and Warrick stumbled in, breathless and drenched from head to toe, escorted by his brother William.

Warrick looked at her forlornly, his brown hair sopping wet and lying flat to his head. “I am truly sorry, Miss Huntley.”

Lorena worried after his appearance. “Whatever for, Warrick?” She looked uncertainly from one to the other of them, the elder William, by all appearances, only slightly older in years. “This storm . . . did something happen?” she asked.

“Warrick’s fine, miss.” William removed his round top hat, and seawater dripped from its rim as he greeted her with a nod. “Not injured, except for his pride. A comber crashed over the bulwarks and swept him off his feet and into the lee scuppers. Sorry to say, it also took your breakfast tray and washed it into the sea.”

“Oh, I hardly give a care about that. What’s important is that Warrick was not injured.”

Warrick bowed his head. “Thank you, miss.”

Lorena felt for him in his embarrassment, for she was certain the loss of the breakfast tray pained him more than his fall. “You had better go quickly now and change your clothes.”

“He’ll have time for that later,” William announced sternly, hastening toward the stern windows. “A seaman gets used to working in wet clothing, miss. Warrick, step lively and come help me close these deadlights.”

Lorena’s concern multiplied. “Pray, tell me of this weather we’re having, Mr. Farragut.”

William and his brother drew the damask curtains out of their way, allowing her a clear view of the storm for herself. Below, the ocean rolled white with foam. A greenish-gray sea lashed violently—rising, rising, then curling into a foaming, towering crest that crashed down in an explosion of spray.

Drew gasped in awe. Lorena lifted him off the seat and away from the windows.

“A mighty gale has come upon us, Miss Huntley,” William explained, working quickly with Warrick to close the heavy wooden shutters. “The
Yankee Heart
rides under close-reefed sails, and the great height of her quarterdeck has been a blessing in breaking the force of the sea. Captain Talvis and Mr. Smith are presently completing a tour of inspection. The captain has asked me to inform you that he has ordered Warrick to remain inside with you and Drew. None of you are to leave the cabins until further notice.”

Off in the starboard horizon a flash of white-hot light appeared just before William secured the last deadlight into place. The shutters were fitted to keep out water and the threat of broken glass, but they also blocked what little daylight shone into the cabin.

Drew shook off Lorena’s embrace to approach the second mate. “But, Mr. Farragut, I must come with you. The captain needs me to help shorten sail—”

The cabin rattled with a deafening boom, cutting him off and startling Lorena, regardless that she’d known thunder was coming.

Lorena felt hard pressed to contain her smile, as it seemed did William. “You heard Mr. Farragut. You’ll not be going anywhere,” she told the boy. “Off to your cabin, Warrick. Quickly now, and change into something dry. Here, Mr. Farragut, allow me to help you close the draperies over these deadlights. Do you think there’s any chance I might be able to speak with Captain Talvis?”

As young Warrick excused himself and made for his cabin, his brother turned to her in earnest. “I cannot go against the captain’s orders and allow you on deck, but I will let him know you have asked for him. Please understand he is quite busy battling this gale and keeping a wary eye out for any shift in weather. And if I may ask, Miss Huntley, please help keep my brother safe indoors. He wants to do his share with the rest of us, but I expect Warrick to follow your direction. He does not look the part, but he has a much determined will.”

Lorena swallowed her disappointment that she’d not be able to see Brogan. “Of course I shall look out for your brother, Mr. Farragut. Is there anything more I can do?”

He scanned the disorder of the great cabin with a thoughtful expression. “Yes, miss. For your safety, extinguish the lanterns. Have Warrick secure all moveable objects by storing them in the lockers under the cushions of the stern window seats. Then wedge yourselves into a place where you shall be less likely to be tossed about. Other than that, there’s nothing more to be done but watch and ride out this gale. Warrick knows where to find a store of ship’s biscuits until the galley fires can be restarted and we’re able to bring you something more to eat.”

William returned to his duties, and Lorena sought out her small companion, who had begun to snoop through the charts and instruments scattered on the carpet. “You heard Mr. Farragut, Drew. Help me get the captain’s things into the storage lockers.”

“Are you scared?” he asked.

It was impossible to ignore the roll and pitch of the ship or dismiss its groans, its strain and labor. “No. Are you?”

Drew shook his head. He’d never admit to feeling frightened if she were not.

His brave front bolstered her confidence. “All shall be well.”

“But when will the captain come?”

“As soon as he can. Once he’s navigated the ship safely through this storm, he’ll come. He’s brought ships through much worse, I’m certain. Now let’s get busy putting the cabin in safe order.”

Warrick appeared in a fresh pair of high-waisted white trousers, an oversized red waistcoat, faded and frayed and quite likely handed down, and a dark navy neckerchief, which Lorena suspected of being the finest article he owned. His brown hair was damp and mussed, she assumed from a hasty towel drying.

He joined them in dousing the lantern flames and securing all loose items. At his suggestion they huddled on the settee together in the dark and gloomy cabin.

Warrick and Drew shared the tin of ship’s biscuit and the last of the maple sugar fudge. Lorena had no appetite for either. Her thoughts were with Brogan out in the gale. She’d seen the look of concern on William Farragut’s face when he’d asked her to look out for his brother. She understood the grave danger of working a ship in heavy weather. Even the heartiest and most seasoned sailors were not invulnerable to the mountainous swells that could snatch a man from the safety of the deck and drag him into the sea.

Life was precious. It could be altered in an instant or someone dear lost in one stroke of fate. Having survived her mother’s passing, and more recently the events of these past weeks, Lorena had never believed this to be more true. Whatever Brogan had to tell her, whatever secret he revealed, it wouldn’t change the way she felt about him.
Just, please, let him return safely
.

She listened to the commotion from without and realized it had begun to rain.

The
Yankee Heart
gave a pitch, nearly tossing them off the settee. The tin flew from Drew’s fingers, crashing to the Brussels carpet, where it rolled among a shower of dry biscuit crumbs. Upended dining chairs shifted to leeward. They’d been diligent in tucking away even the smallest of articles, but one overlooked item glided toward them, delivered as if by Providence.

A cracked and worn brown leather volume, tied closed by a thin leather strap.

Dark clouds descended over the
Yankee Heart
in an unearthly haze of deep violet stirring into black. Lightning played back and forth in the distance, and thunder rent the air with the report of a cannon shot, echoing until Brogan felt its vibration in the quarterdeck beneath his Hessians.

A hard rain pounded the decks and lashed in windswept fury against his face and chest. “Hard-a-lee,” he shouted to Josiah Carter, manning the wheel.

Quartermaster Cyrus Fletcher had been sent below for some much needed rest. Brogan had relieved Jabez as well, the mate having worked tirelessly through the night, and asked that he check on Lorena and Drew before grabbing some winks.

Mr. Carter put down the wheel and turned the ship’s head. Brogan followed the circuit of the
Yankee Heart
’s bowsprit as she came round, then snapped his gaze to the sails as she picked up the wind from her other quarter. Gusts wailed through the rigging with a shrill loud enough to curl an old salt’s toes.

As the ship swung past the eye of the wind, his trained and discerning eye took measure. She still carried too much sail.

“Reef the main upper topsail, Mr. Farragut,” Brogan ordered into the squall, where his second mate manned the waist with several of the crew.

The wind carried back the faint echo of William’s “Aye, sir!”

The agile youth took two seamen with him into the rigging. The wind whipped around them with evil ferocity as they made the slick, dangerous ascent. It filled the sails, turning them into snapping sheets of unforgiving canvas, heavy and wet with spray. Twenty . . . forty . . . sixty feet and upward they continued to scale the mainmast. Reducing sail was tricky business in fair weather. In a gale like this, such a feat could seem near impossible. It was a precarious hold on those lofty, wet footropes, balancing against the roll and pitch of the sea, but Brogan had complete faith in the skill of his men.

And yet something disquieted him. Uneasiness churned in his gut. Something was amiss. A sense of danger surrounded him like a shark circling its prey, and Brogan searched frantically for the reason.

A broken spar hurtled up through the air on a violent gust. He yelled out a warning that was quickly lost in the deafening report of the snapping mainsail. The projectile struck Gideon Hale on the thigh and knocked him off the ratlines.

Brogan could do nothing but watch his man helplessly drop over eighty feet to the deck.

His heart plunged along with Gideon, and he felt the impact as though it were he who’d fallen. He recognized the stillness of death in Gideon’s prone form. Anguished, he dashed down the companion ladder and, upon reaching the main deck, hailed assistance from the starboard watch. It required a good bit of strength and time to walk aft against the screaming winds, and even with his own height and weight it was difficult for Brogan to stand erect.