Surrender the Dawn (28 page)

Billowing sails, stark against the murky sky, came into view.

“Is she a merchantman, Luke? I mean Captain Luke.” John’s voice brimmed with enthusiasm.

“Hold steady there, lad,” Biron interjected. “It won’t matter if she is. We haven’t enough daylight left to take her.”

“Ah …” John’s shoulders lowered.

Luke could relate. Patience had never been one of Luke’s finest virtues either. If he possessed any virtues at all. Though he knew privateers could be out for months before seeing any action, the quicker he caught a prize or two, the quicker he could return to Baltimore to see Miss Channing. The quicker he could add another success to outweigh his list of failures. And the quicker he could prove to Mrs. Barnes that he was fully capable of taking care of John at sea.

Several minutes passed as the ship came sharper into view. Waves slapped against the hull. Sails flapped thunderously as his crew awaited orders. Luke studied her armament and the shape of her hull just as a shout from above confirmed his assessment.

“She’s a Royal Navy frigate!”

John’s eyes widened. “A frigate!” He begged for the glass, nearly plucking it from Luke’s hand, then raised it to his eye, looking ever so much like he’d been born to captain a ship. Luke smiled. If Mrs. Barnes could see the boy now, all her worries would blow away in the wind.

Biron tugged at his red neckerchief, his gray brows colliding. “Should we run?”

Luke shook his head as the sun bade its farewell with bands of orange and maroon. “No sense. It will be dark soon.” He turned to Sam, manning the wheel with as much seriousness as he had no doubt done in the navy. “Keep her steady, Sam.”

John’s
oohs
and
aahs
filled the air as he examined the ship through the scope. But soon darkness stole it from their view, and he handed the glass back to Luke.

“Sam, alter course slightly to the east,” Luke ordered. “We’ll lose them during the night. And Biron, inform the night watch to keep the lanterns cold, if you please. We don’t want to give them anything to shoot at, do we?”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” both men replied.

Untying John, Luke ushered the boy down the companionway to the captain’s cabin. After a rather tasteless meal of dried meat and hard
biscuits, Luke assisted John with his studies—another thing he’d promised Mrs. Barnes he would do. After going over mathematics, literature, and shipboard navigation, Luke tucked John into the captain’s bed. “You’re much smarter than I ever was, little brother. I was never very good at my studies.”

“I know. Mrs. Barnes told me.” John smiled.

Laughing, Luke tapped John on the nose, pride welling up in him. “You’re also going to be a great sailor and a good captain.”

“I told you I could do it.” The young boy nodded.

“And you were right. I should have trusted you.”

“I take after you, Luke.” John grew serious. “You’re a great captain. Mom and Dad would be proud.”

Emotion burned in Luke’s throat as he pulled the quilt up to John’s chin. He doubted that was true. If his parents could see the way Luke lived his life, it would no doubt break their hearts. All the things they had warned him to stay away from, he had run out and done anyway. The gambling, drinking, the womanizing. And all the things they had told him were important, reading his Bible, praying, working hard, and trusting God, he had not done. Why? Rebellion against their rigid rules, he supposed. But it went much deeper than that. Right into the depths of their faith. Where had their devotion to God gotten them? Burned alive in their own house. But Luke didn’t blame God for that. How could he blame someone who didn’t exist? No, their deaths were on Luke’s head. He could have rescued them, but he didn’t. Instead, he had stood there like a coward.

A sudden ache sliced through his right ear, and he reached up to rub it.

“Get some sleep, John.” Luke stood. “You never know what tomorrow will bring. Perhaps we’ll catch a prize!”

John gave him a wide grin then turned on his side and closed his eyes as if obeying Luke would make it come true.

By the time Luke made it to his desk, John’s deep breathing filled the cabin. Ah, to be an innocent child again and fall asleep without a care in the world. Sinking down onto the stern window ledge, Luke propped up his boot and gazed out the windows onto the ebony sea beyond. Boisterous laughter and a ribald ballad drifted down from above, reminding Luke that everyone—but him and possibly Biron—was enjoying some rum tonight.

Infernal woman.
He leaned his head back on the bulkhead. Infernal,
wonderful, beautiful woman. Though it had been weeks, his lips still burned with the passion of her kiss, her taste. The way she had melted at his touch and groaned in pleasure. She had wanted him to kiss her. And he had been unable to stop. Just as he was unable to stop thinking of her now. Did he have a chance to win her affections? He had not thought so until that night. But a seed of hope had wiggled into the hard soil of his heart—albeit a tiny seed—that a woman like Cassandra could love a blackguard like him.

“Captain!” Rough hands gripped Luke’s arms. “Get up.”

Luke rubbed his eyes and opened them to see a worried look on Biron’s lined face.

“What is it?” He sprang from the hammock.

“It’s the frigate, Captain.” Biron shot a glance out the stern windows where the sun’s rays were just intruding into the cabin and then at John, still sound asleep on the bed.

“She’s fast on our tail.”

  CHAPTER 20  

C
lutching her gown, Cassandra dragged her tired legs up the stairs to her chamber. She’d been woken far too early that morning when Darlene, Hannah, and Dexter had burst into her room chasing each other in a game of privateer versus British merchantman. With sticks as swords, hairbrushes as pistols, and Dexter’s thunderous barks serving as cannon blasts, the trio had pounced on her bed, oblivious to Cassandra’s sleeping form. After chastising them, Cassandra had given in to their sobs and gathered them up on her rumpled coverlet where the three of them, and Dexter, had engaged in a renewed battle, only this time using pillows—the likes of which had quickly become casualties of war in a snowstorm of feathers. Cassandra had insisted they all help Mrs. Northrop clean up the mess, but now as Cassandra entered her chamber, she spotted one rebellious feather peeking at her from beneath the bed. Stooping, she picked it up and brushed it over her chin, a smile lifting her lips. Just to see Hannah well again was worth the mayhem.

A scraping sound jerked Cassandra’s gaze to her dressing bureau in the far corner where Mrs. Northrop stood gaping at her, a look of terror on her face.

“Mrs. Northrop, whatever are you doing in here?”

The housekeeper waved both hands in the air. “Just searching for more feathers, miss.” Her voice quaked and her gaze skittered across the
chamber. “Oh, I see you’ve found one.” Dashing toward Cassandra, she plucked it from her hand and rushed out of the room.

Cassandra stared after her. The woman’s behavior was becoming more and more peculiar with each passing day.

The shrill
ding ding ding
of a bell shot through the open door, followed by her mother’s pathetic howl. Then Darlene’s boisterous laughter, accompanied by Hannah’s yelp, barreled through the window from outside.

Perhaps the entire house was mad, after all.

Cassandra wandered to her window and sat on the cushioned ledge. Shafts of afternoon sunlight angled across the side of the house and over the top of the solarium below. The leaves of birch and maple trees fluttered in the breeze as pink Virginia creeper circled their trunks. A hot summer breeze caressed her face, swirling the scent of wild mint and thyme beneath her nose. A bell tolled from the docks, and her thoughts drifted to Mr. Heaton. He’d been gone two weeks. Not a day—no, if she were honest—not an hour passed that she did not think of him.

And his kiss. The way her insides had felt like a thousand flickering candles. The look of adoration and desire in his eyes. The shameful way she had responded.

Before she had slapped him.

Yet even her strike had not erased the affection from his gaze or the mischievous smirk from his lips. She missed him. And she hated herself for it. A niggling fear had ignited within her these past days. Privateering was dangerous business. What if something happened to him and his ship? What if she never saw him again?

Cassandra gazed down at the floral pattern on the cushions. She must not think of him. Nor of his kiss. She must not entertain thoughts of any attachment to the man. For he was a blackguard and a philanderer. Not a man to be counted on—trusted. Even if she accepted his courtship, he’d no doubt grow restless and abandon her. No, she could not depend on anyone, not ever again. For everyone had let her down. Even God.

God. Reverend Drummond and Marianne had said that God had a purpose—a good purpose for everything that happened. If that was true, if God was involved in the details of Cassandra’s life, would He still listen to her prayers? Even though she had ignored Him for years?

She bowed her head. “God, if You’re listening, please protect Mr. Heaton.”

The sound of a throat clearing opened Cassandra’s eyes. She turned to see Margaret smiling at her from the doorway. Cassandra’s face heated.

“Forgive me, miss. I didn’t mean to intrude, but your mother requests your presence in the parlor. Mr. Crane has arrived.”

Cassandra closed her eyes. “Oh, bother.” Lately, the man seemed to appear wherever Cassandra happened to be: at the chandlers, the wheelwright, the seamstress, the butcher. And when she didn’t venture out, he showed up at her house. However, his usual dour mood had significantly improved these past few weeks. To the point that he was almost giddy with delight. And for some reason, that annoyed her more than his peevishness. At least he had not brought up the subject of a courtship between them again. Though if that was not his goal, she couldn’t imagine why he continued to call on her family. Squaring her shoulders, Cassandra rose from her seat, pressed down the folds of her gown.

“Pardon me for saying so.” The maid gave her a coy grin. “But it’s good to see you praying again, miss.”

Cassandra flung a hand in the air as she brushed past Margaret. “I was just praying for Mr. Heaton’s safety.”

“Well, if he’s the one causing you to talk to God again, I hope he returns to town soon.” Margaret’s words followed Cassandra downstairs and settled on her heart with equal sentiment.

So did she. So did she.

Before she reached the foyer, whispers slithered over her ears. Peering over the banister, Cassandra spotted Mr. Crane speaking to Mrs. Northrop at the entrance to the long hall that led to the back of the house. Mrs. Northrop nodded and sped away, while Mr. Crane strode to the foot of the stairs, his face aglow with surprise when he saw Cassandra descending.

“Ah, Miss Channing, you look lovely this afternoon.”

“Thank you, sir. What on earth were you speaking to my housekeeper about?”

His lips twisted in an odd shape before he answered. “Just ordering some tea for your mother.” He proffered his arm and led Cassandra into the sitting room where her mother perched excitedly on the settee.