Surrender the Heart (21 page)

Sensing a hesitancy in the man, Marianne stepped forward. “If I may, sir. They were not deserters, you see—”

“You may not, miss!” the captain barked, forcing the remainder of Marianne’s words into a clump in the back of her throat.

“Very good, Mr. Garrick.” He shifted gray eyes onto his first lieutenant. “See that they are settled and given their assignments.” He rounded the desk, keeping his eyes on Marianne. “And who might this be?”

Lieutenant Garrick lifted his chin. “I thought she would do nicely as your new steward, Captain.”

“Indeed?” The captain appraised her as one might a piece of fine furniture or a prize horse. Marianne shifted beneath his impertinent perusal and dared a glance at Lieutenant Garrick behind her.

Gone was the smug facade he’d worn on board the
Fortune
. Instead the man kept his eyes leveled forward and his back straight. “Since we lost Jason in the storm,” he added with a tremble in his voice.

The officer’s stance of temerity before his captain caused a new gush of fear to rise within Marianne. What sort of man
was
this Captain Milford?

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Garrick. Do you take me for a fool?” The captain snapped, spit flying from his mouth. Then as quickly as his fury had risen, his features softened, and he grabbed a lock of Marianne’s hair and rubbed it in between his fingers. He lifted it to his nose. “Has she any training?”

Marianne stiffened. “I would appreciate you not speaking about me as though I were too ignorant to understand you, sir.”

The captain’s gray eyes chilled, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. But then he broke into a chuckle. Lieutenant Garrick smiled.

The captain speared him with a sharp gaze “That will be all, Mr. Garrick. Attend to the new recruits.”

With a salute, Garrick turned and left.

“No, you remain, Mr. Reed.” Captain Milford’s words halted the other officer.

Marianne’s breath grew rapid. Determined not to show her fear, she met the captain’s gaze without wavering. Interest flickered in his eyes as he circled her, one hand behind his back. Arrows of sunlight beamed through the stern windows and angled across a cabin much larger than Noah’s aboard the
Fortune
. The bright rays skimmed over the desk, the chairs, and a bookcase holding numerous tomes, decanters, and glasses. Two unlit lanterns swung from hooks on the deck-head. A sleeping chamber took up the far left corner. Conspicuously absent, however, were the cannons. Marianne had always heard British captains kept cannons in their cabins, ready for use. Also odd was the row of potted plants that lined the stern window casing.

Captain Milford completed his assessment and stood before her, his gray eyes sharp. “So, miss. Have you?”

“I beg your pardon.” Marianne shifted her shoes over the edge of the painted canvas at the room’s center.

He gave an exasperated sigh. “Any training as a steward?”

Encouraged by the spark of kindness drifting over his expression, Marianne turned pleading eyes his way. “Captain, I beg you. My name is Marianne Denton, and I am a citizen of Baltimore, Maryland. I am no one’s steward, sir. In fact, I wasn’t even supposed to be on that merchant ship.”

The gold fringe on his epaulettes shook as the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes folded in laughter. “Allow me to enlighten your understanding, Miss Denton. You are no longer a citizen of Baltimore. You are my steward. You will prepare and lay out my clothing, bring me my meals, scrub this cabin, and help keep my affairs in order.” His tone rang through the cabin like a death knell. “Is that clear?”

Marianne closed her eyes.
This cannot be happening
. “Captain, if I may indulge your patience. My mother is very ill. I must get back to her as soon as possible.”

“Enough!” He thrust his face toward her. “My mother died while I was at sea. You will soon learn that we all must make sacrifices.”

His hot breath, tainted with alcohol, fanned over her skin. Turning, he stormed toward his desk and poured a glass of amber liquid from a glass carafe. He sipped it and took up a pace before the stern windows.

“Many sailors have woeful tales, miss. If I allowed everyone off this ship who had some tragedy ashore, I’d be sailing it myself.”

He fingered the leaf of one of the plants. “Isn’t that so, my lovely?”

Marianne flinched. Was the captain toying with her? “But I am not a sailor. I am an innocent lady.”

He tossed the remainder of his drink to the back of his throat then slammed the glass to his desk. Turning, he brushed invisible dust from his dark blue sleeves. “Do I look presentable, Mr. Reed?”

“As always, Captain.” The man’s guttural voice drifted from behind her.

“Very well. Very well, indeed.” He glanced across the cabin as if trying to remember something, his eyes growing dull and lifeless.

The ship moaned over a swell, and Marianne steadied her shoes against the rising deck.

“Captain?” The officer behind her said. “Your orders?”

He shook his head. “Ah yes. Prepare the ship to get underway, Mr. Reed.”

“And the lady?”

“Show her to the steward’s quarters.”

Marianne took a step forward. “But, Captain, you cannot hold an innocent civilian.”

He eyed her and the former sharpness in his gaze returned. “I assure you I can, miss. I can do whatever I wish. I am master of this ship. I can either treat you as my steward or as a prisoner and lock you below. Which would you prefer?”

Marianne pursed her lips and tried to quell both her anger and her fear. She must choose the option that afforded her the most freedom— freedom to help Noah and his crew, and freedom to escape.

Noah lined up with his men on the deck of the
Undefeatable
, awaiting their inspection, and gazed at the
Fortune
—his ship, his father’s last ship—as it sailed away over the choppy azure waves. He supposed he should be happy the two nations were not at war for if they were, the British would most certainly have taken his ship and cargo as prize. Though his body had accepted his fate, his mind was cast adrift in a sea of impossibilities, unable to anchor into anything solid, anything real. On his right stood Luke, his hands crimped into permanent fists. On his left, Weller shifted from foot to foot, muttering to himself.

Across the deck, sailors busied themselves with various tasks: scrubbing the deck, tying knots, coiling rope, shining brass, hoisting lines, and unfurling sail as the ship prepared to get underway. Not a square foot of space could be found unoccupied. And weaving among the organized chaos, marched masters’ mates, shouting orders as they snapped their stiff rattans against their palm to ward off any dissension.

Lieutenant Garrick popped up from beneath the quarterdeck where he had disappeared moments before with Marianne.
Oh God
,
please keep her safe
. Noah surprised himself with the first prayer he had uttered in eleven years.

The lieutenant took up a pace before them, placing one hand behind his back. “You three men will be assessed as to your skills and assigned to different watches and positions.” He halted and scoured them with a haughty gaze. “A word to the wise. This is a British navy vessel, a disciplined fighting machine, not the unorganized piece of flotsam from which you came.”

Noah grimaced, and Luke leveled such a burning gaze upon the man, Noah feared it would sear him clean through.

Garrick didn’t seem to notice, so obsessed was he with his commanding performance. “Captain Milford suffers no fools on board, nor does he brook any nonsense. The sooner you accept that, the better things will go for you.”

Mr. Weller mumbled something.

Luke gave a defiant grunt, bringing the lieutenant’s gaze down on him along with his pointy finger. “I perceive we shall have trouble with you.” He cocked his head. “Nothing that a few licks from the cat won’t change.” He chuckled.

Noah tired of the man’s supercilious display.

He nudged Luke with his elbow and shook his head, hoping his volatile first mate would heed the warning. He had heard of men being lashed with the cat-o’-nine who had barely survived. The cruel punishment was inflicted aboard His Majesty’s ships for the slightest infractions and was the reason so many of their crew deserted.

Which was what Noah intended to do. And exactly the reason that he and his men had to submit to this man’s pompous authority— for the time being.

The sails snapped above. The ship lurched, and Noah ran the sleeve of his shirt across his sweaty brow.

“He won’t give you any trouble, Lieutenant. Just show us where to go.” Perhaps then he could speak to the captain. Surely a man in command of such an exquisite warship would have the decency and honor to see how great an injustice had been enacted upon them. Any
reasonable man could come to no other conclusion save that Noah and his friends were but neutral American merchantmen and not British navy deserters.

Garrick’s spiteful gaze shifted to him. “Mr. Simons,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Take these men below. Instruct the surgeon to look them over from stem to stern and have them make their mark on the ship’s articles. Issue them their slops, mess gear, and hammock, and see to their assignments.”

“Yes, sir.” A short, squat man with a considerably large bald head approached and led Noah and his crew below deck.

A deep gloom enveloped Noah as he descended the ladder— a darkness and heat that was oppressive, stifling. Perhaps it was the number of sailors crammed into this tiny space. Men seemed to fill every crack and crevice, each one of them busy attending to some task. Down one more deck and they met the surgeon—a pale, thin man with bloodstains on his shirt and sweat layered on his brow. After gazing into their open mouths and squeezing a few muscles, he pronounced them all fit for duty.

Next, Mr. Simons escorted them to the purser’s cabin. A thick man with leathery skin leaned on the counter and pointed toward a parchment containing various marks and signatures. “Make yer mark here, if you please.”

Noah fingered the quill pen. “And if I don’t?”

Mr. Simons laughed, and he and the purser exchanged a glance. “You don’t want to be findin’ that out, now. The cap’n deals harshly wit’ mutineers.”

“How can we be mutineers if we aren’t in your stinking navy?” Luke grumbled.

Mr. Weller nudged Noah. “We better do it, Cap’n.” His voice emerged as a childish whimper.

“Very well.” Noah signed the paper and handed it to Luke. “It won’t matter anyway.”

“Welcome t’ His Majesty’s Navy.” The purser chortled after they had all signed, “Here’s yer slops and gear.” He tossed each of them a
bundle that upon further inspection contained tin cups, plates, a hammock, and clothing that smelled as if it hadn’t been washed since the last owner had worn it. After changing and storing their gear in the berth, Noah and his men followed Mr. Simons back up on deck.

As Noah emerged above, he blinked and squinted like some nocturnal animal trapped in the sunlight. “Mr. Simons, can you tell me what became of the lady who was brought on board with us?”

“Don’t know nothin’ about that. I imagine she’s wit’ the cap’n.”

Noah’s throat closed. Surely the captain would do her no harm. Would he?

Mr. Simons drifted past them and pointed at Luke. “You are assigned to larboard watch.” He thumbed over his shoulder to a man dressed in trousers too small for his tall frame. “Kane’ll show you the ropes.”

“I’ve been sailing ships all my life.” Luke huffed his disdain. “I doubt Mr. Kane can show me anything.”

“What he’ll be showin’ you is how to do what you’re told an’ keep your mouth shut.” Mr. Simons’s heightened voice held a warning as his baleful eyes narrowed upon Luke. With a shake of his head he continued, “And you.” He stopped before Mr. Weller. “Gunner’s mate. Since I see you already had a run in wit’ a canon,” the purser added with a laugh.

The scars on Mr. Weller’s face seemed to scream in defiance, yet he simply nodded as a glaze of placid acceptance covered his dark eyes.

“Get below and report to Mr. Ganes.”