Surrender the Heart (26 page)

“Sounds like your father.” Luke snorted.

Noah slouched back into his seat, allowing the perverse connection to settle into his reason. He opened his mouth to respond when the air filled with blasphemies.

“Blasted Yankees!” a man yelled.

“Ill-bred rebels!” another brayed. Noah looked up to see a mob forming around them. “My pa died in your revolution.” A particularly hairy man with pockmarks on his face leaned his hand on the edge of the table.

Luke slowly rose. “And how is that our fault, you callow fool?” The man spit into Luke’s bowl.

Noah stood and held an arm out, restraining his first mate from charging the man.

“That one is uglier than a pig struck with a hot iron.” Another man beside the first pointed at Weller. “Don’t ye Yankees know how to handle your guns?”

The mob laughed.

Confound it all, now Noah was getting angry. “He lost his fingers on one of your British ships. Therefore, it is your master gunner’s incompetence which should be called into question.”

The pockmarks on the man’s face seemed to deepen. He grabbed the platter of their remaining pork and tossed it against the bulkhead. The chunks of meat fell to the floor with heavy thumps. “You’ll see,” the man said in a loud voice. “We’ll beat you ignorant dawcocks an’ send you runnin’ to hide behind yer mama’s skirts.” He clipped his thumbs inside his belt. “Then maybe I’ll be the new major o’ one of the barbaric outposts ye call a town.” He glanced over his friends and they all joined him in laughter. “An’ yer mama can clean me shirts.”

Luke grabbed the man by the collar and tossed him backward through the mob. He stumbled and crashed into a mess table. Shouts and jeers erupted from the men, none too pleased when their meager stew spilled over the table from the overturned pot. They shoved the man back toward Luke.

The pock-faced man collected himself. Without hesitation, he slammed his fist across Luke’s jaw.

Shouts assailed them from neighboring tables as men rose from their meals to witness the brawl. Wide-eyed, Weller struggled to his feet.

Blackthorn grabbed Luke by the arm. “Let it be.” His voice held
more than a warning. It held terror.

“Please, sir.” Daniel headed toward Luke, but Blackthorn pushed the lad behind him.

Noah barreled forward. He must stop this madness before the officers took note.

Luke’s dark eyes narrowed into seething points. Jerking from Blackthorn’s grip, he raised his fist. Noah shoved himself between Luke and his assailant and grabbed Luke’s hand in midair.

“Let me at him, Cap’n.” Luke struggled.

Noah shook his head and forced down Luke’s arm with difficulty.

“I told ye all Yankees are milksops,” the other man chortled and his friends joined in.

“What have we here?” The stout voice of a marine sergeant scattered most of the rats back to their tables. The officer’s boots thumped authority over the deck.

“Nothin’, sir.” Blackthorn stepped forward. “Just a disagreement.”

“And as usual, I find you in the middle of it.” The man gave a disgruntled moan. “Anxious to meet the cat again, Mr. Blackthorn?”

Blackthorn’s jaw stiffened. “No, sir.”

“That American insulted our navy, sir.” The pock-faced man pointed at Luke. His voice transformed from one of spite to one of humble subservience.

The marine stopped and eyed Luke. “He did, did he?”

“An’ we couldn’t let it go without speaking up for King George’s navy.”

In lieu of a hat, he placed his hand over his heart. “Long live the king.”

“To the king!” A muffled toast echoed halfheartedly through the room.

Noah clenched his fists. Surely this officer would see reason. “Sir, if you please, this man approached our table and insulted us without provocation.”

“I care not what was said.” The marine sergeant adjusted his cuffs. “All that concerns me is who struck the first blow?”

“He fisted me first, sir.” The pock-faced man gestured again toward Luke. The rest agreed.

“I protest.” Noah thrust his face toward the man.

“Regardless.” A malicious grin writhed upon the marine’s lips.” Perhaps we need to teach you barbaric Americans who is truly in command. “Come with me.” He pointed toward Noah and Luke. “The captain will decide your just punishment.”

CHAPTER 14

M
arianne pushed the rag over the brass candlestick for the thousandth time. Her fingers ached. Her back ached. And the sharp scent of polish stung her nose. Her only consolation lay in the fact that everyone aboard this ship shared her suffering from overwork. Most of the sailors were young boys far from home or older men torn from their families by impressment gangs back in England. Too illiterate to read the posts sent from loved ones, they carried the missives in their pockets if only to make them feel close to those they left behind.

She stopped to steal a glance out the cabin windows, before which the captain stood, tending his plants. Outside, the lantern perched upon the stern showered a haze of golden light over the captain, highlighting the gray in his hair and making him look almost peaceful—almost.

As if to contradict her thought, he cursed and mumbled something she couldn’t make out as he moved from plant to plant with his watering jug.

Then suddenly he swung around. His eyes glazed with the mad look she’d grown accustomed to these past few days. “Odds fish, aren’t you done yet?”

Marianne examined the shimmering brass. She thought she’d been done hours ago, but the man saw flaws no human being could ever see. She held the two holders up to him with a questioning look on her face, hoping her annoyance didn’t show on her features.

He set down his jug and grabbed the half-full glass of brandy he’d been nursing all night. “I suppose they will do.” His voice sounded heavy with defeat and something else … a hopelessness that seemed to thicken the air around him.

Rising, Marianne set the brass holders atop his desk and tucked the cloth in the pocket of her skirt. “Captain, if I may ask a favor?”

He grunted.

Marianne had come to interpret that as permission to continue, so she took a step forward. “If you would indulge me, Captain, and if your men would approve, I could read their missives from home to them. I mean, for those who are not schooled in their letters.” Though she normally would resist doing anything to help the British, she could not fault these young impressed sailors for being aboard this warship. It was bad enough they’d been forced into naval service, but to not be able to read comforting words from home, or to have to wait for an officer’s good humor to read them … Tragic. If she must remain imprisoned aboard this ship, perhaps she could at least bring some joy to others in the same position.

Captain Milford sipped his brandy and stared at her as if she’d asked permission to sprout wings. “The midshipmen often read their letters to them. But if you wish. It matters not to me.”

“Thank you, Captain.” She turned to go.

“Stay. Sit down for a moment.” He cocked his head toward a chair, and Marianne groaned inwardly.
Drat
. It had been a long day. Her muscles screamed for rest.

Slipping onto a chair cushion, she stretched her aching back and waited. Only seven days of endless serving and cleaning had passed, yet it seemed like a thousand. And all she saw before her was a multitude of similar days strung together in a muddled line of misery that screamed into eternity. Though she had long ago decided against
trying to understand God’s purposes—especially when one tragedy after another had struck her family—she found a need growing within her to know the reason for this current madness. She refused to believe the explanation Daniel had given that her that she had been sent to rescue him. Just the fanciful notions of a young boy.

Drink in hand, Captain Milford dropped into a chair in front of his desk. He released a long sigh and stared at the canvas rug beneath his boots. During their forced time together the past few days, Marianne had caught him staring at her more than once, not in a licentious manner, but more as if he wished to converse with her.

As if he were lonely.

“You remind me a bit of my Elizabeth.” An awkward smile rose on his lips.

“Indeed?” Marianne wondered if he was paying her a compliment or an insult. Though from the wistful expression on his face she guessed it was the former.

“She was a woman I knew once. Many years ago.” He stared off into space as if he were traveling back in time. “Smart, courageous, kind.” His eyes snapped to her. “Though you’re no beauty like she was.”

Marianne lowered her chin. Had he said smart, courageous, and kind? Yet all she heard were the words “no beauty.” Why did the flood of pain caused by such insults always drown out the compliments to her character?

“Blast it all, I’ve hurt your feelings,” he growled in a tone that carried no apology. “Women are far too sensitive.”

Marianne twisted the ring on her finger until the ruby glowed in the lantern light. “What happened to her?” she managed.

He gulped the last of his drink and slammed the glass down on his desk. Marianne flinched. Rising, he waved a hand through the air then gripped his side. “It matters not.”

“I’ll warrant you have a family of your own back in England, Captain.” She realized her error too late as every line on his face tightened and his eyes flitted about the room as if in search of something.

Finally they settled on her in a cold, hard stare. “And why would you think that?”

Marianne had no response save the nervous gurgling of her stomach.

He stormed toward her. “The Royal Navy is my family, Miss Denton. Been my family all my life. Was my father’s family and his father’s family before him.”

Marianne stared down at his boots and concentrated on the exquisite shine, compliments of her hard work that morning. She didn’t want to look up at the intimidating man towering above her. She didn’t want to look into those volatile eyes, serene one minute and explosive the next. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he bellowed. Thick hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked her to her feet.

She stared straight into twitching, gray eyes. The scent of brandy stung her nose. Gathering her bravado, she tugged from his grasp and took a step back. “It seems a rather lonely existence, Captain.” She kept her voice steady, despite her quivering belly. “And I would appreciate you keeping your hands to yourself. No gentleman would employ such crude manners.”

If he intended to strike her or lock her in irons, she preferred that he simply proceed without delay. For every time she was in the captain’s presence, she felt as though she were walking one of those thin ropes in the top yards, waiting to be shoved off to the deck below.

A tiny vein pulsed in his neck just above his black neckerchief. The hungry sea dashed against the hull and tipped the ship slightly to larboard. Marianne braced her feet against the deck and her soul against another onslaught of this man’s deranged outbursts.

Instead, he broke into a chuckle and swung about.

“The navy’s been good to me,” he continued the conversation as if nothing had happened. Perhaps to him, it hadn’t. “Why, I’ve seen exotic places most people never see. I’ve fought in glorious battles that have changed the course of history.” He rounded his desk and caressed one of the leaves of his plants. His rock-hard expression softened.
“Tender precious things, aren’t they? Grew them from seeds. Just one little seed”—he gestured the size with his thumb and forefinger—“and you can grow a tree that will feed a family.”