The Irish Bride (11 page)

Aidan’s dark-haired good looks rose in
her mind again, and she tried in vain to push them away. Wasn’t he
the reason they were here on this whittled out cork, bobbing along
to an unknown land? Providing, God save them, that they weren’t
swept overboard, or the ship wasn’t smashed to smithereens by a
storm or one of the sea monsters she’d heard the sailors talking
about. Because of Aidan O’Rourke, she might never see her home
again.

“
Might ye spare a wee bit of
flavoring for those spuds, dearie?” a ruddy-faced woman asked,
intruding upon her indignant thoughts.

Farrell pushed a steam-damp curl from
her forehead and reached for a bag of salt on the shelf above her
head. Then, her arm extended, she halted. Her exile from Ireland
was not really Aidan’s fault. Events had piled up, one upon the
other, to lead her to this place and time. She was as much
responsible for her situation as Aidan. Honesty forced her to admit
it. Michael had damned himself with his wrongdoings, and she had
turned a blind eye to those deeds. She would have been in a vast
amount of trouble without Aidan’s help.

But she didn’t have to dance a jig
about it.

Closing her hand around the salt, she
took it and sprinkled a bit over the potatoes. If she had to be out
here, it was good to have an occupation and a purpose, and both
Mary and Jesus knew they could use the extra money.

And here in the galley, she
could keep her distance from
her
man
.

* * *

Just before sunset, Aidan sat at the
little table in Charles Morton’s cabin, facing him over a fan of
cards. He held a pair of sevens and three other useless cards.
Morton stared at him, and he bore the scrutiny with an expression
as blank as a blind man’s. At least he was fairly certain that he
did.

What an interesting game, this poker
that the second mate had taught him. Morton said he’d learned it in
America in dockside pubs. Saloons they were called there. The game
was played in many places, but enjoyed great popularity in southern
port cities where wealthy men had both the time and means to wager.
Aidan was no stranger to gambling, but this was new to
him.

Charles Morton was a young man,
probably younger than Aidan. He wore his light hair cropped short
and sported the same full beard Aidan had noted on the other
seamen. He bore his position with more dignity than did his
captain, but without the seasoned self-possession of Quisenberry.
As with Quisenberry, his general appearance was much better than
that of his captain’s, and as far as Aidan could tell he worked
harder than any other officer onboard. He’d seen the man do large
jobs and small, go aloft, dispense tools and spare sails, and tend
to all manner of tasks. He even doled out provisions to Farrell for
her cooking.

Earlier she’d asked him to talk to
McCorry about increasing her stores, but he knew that Morton was
the one to see.

At last Morton threw his cards on the
table, apparently unable to tell whether his opponent was bluffing,
and unwilling to take the chance that he wasn’t. “Well, I’m out.
You’ve picked up the game very well.”

“
Will ye play again?” Aidan
asked, pulling the coins and cards toward himself. Some were
British currency, others were American.

Morton leaned back in his chair and
smiled at his student. “You’ve gotten all the money from my
pockets, Mr. O’Rourke—that’s my limit. And I won’t see pay again
until we reach New Orleans. I’ve nothing left to bet, save my
grandfather’s gold watch.” He fingered the chain attached to the
timepiece.

“
Nay, man, I won’t be takin’
that. I hope you’re not offering it, and shame to you if you are.
’Twould be wrong to risk something so dear on the turn of a card.”
Remembering the silent, ragged skeletons queued up outside the soup
kitchens in Skibbereen during the famine, he added, “Unless you’re
starving.”

Outside, three bells sounded which,
Aidan had learned, meant that it was five-thirty. Night would be
upon them soon and he knew that Morton was due back on duty. He had
yet to put forth Farrell’s request.

He gathered the cards
together, idly tamping their edges on the tabletop. “My wife asks
if it might be possible to give her a little more food for
the
frainies
, the
puny children and weak souls onboard, the ones who could not bring
their own rations.”

Morton sighed. “McCorry would hang my
hide from the yardarm.”

“
Ye’re a workin’ man. I’ve
seen you laboring on all kinds of jobs. You know what it’s like to
be hungry, I’d warrant.”

“
The problem is that if I
give you extra now, we’ll run short of provisions before we make
port.” He met Aidan’s gaze briefly. “We usually do anyway. There’s
barely enough—barely, mind—for a voyage that he thinks will last a
certain number of weeks. But he’s not very good at planning—the
trips always outlast the food.”

“
It doesn’t sound like a
mistake to my ears. We were promised there’d be meals for every day
we’re aboard.”

Morton shifted uncomfortably in his
chair. “Could you persuade those with more to contribute a
bit?”

Aidan lowered his brows for a moment,
then shrugged. “Aye, I’ll ask. It’s as we’ve always done—protected
our own from those who would starve us.”

Color rose in the younger man’s face
and Aidan knew he’d unintentionally struck a nerve. Morton might
have seen the world, though perhaps not into the dark hearts of
evil men. But it wasn’t his fault he worked for a knave. Aidan
released him from a riveting stare.

“
Would ye win some of this
back before you stand watch again?” he asked, gesturing at the
money before him.

The second mate chuckled, obviously
relieved for the change of subject, and shook his head. “I tell
you, I’ve got nothing left to wager.”

Aidan glanced around the tiny cabin,
with its neat bunk, round window, wall mirror and lamp. It might
not be grand to some, he supposed, but compared to the hold, it
seemed most luxurious. To be able to sleep with his wife, out of
the weather and away from the living hell that steerage had become,
was a great incentive indeed.

Aidan smiled too. “Ah, but I think you
do.”

CHAPTER SIX

Farrell was busy plucking two chickens
for the officers’ dinner when she heard her name. She didn’t need
eyes to know who was at the galley door. But when she looked up,
her heart lightened to see Aidan standing there, grinning as if he
knew the answer to one of the brain-wrenching riddles his father
used to pose beside the peat fire. He’d charm the birds straight
from the trees with his handsomeness, she thought with some irony.
That he affected her the same way worried her.

“
And what would you be
looking so pleased about?” she asked, dragging her forearm across
her brow. The cookstove put out a lot of heat and the close
confines of the galley were stuffy. Chicken feathers swirled like
snow and stuck to her hair and apron-front. Then she perked up a
bit. If he was that happy— “Were you able to get more
whack
for the sickly folk
below?”

“
No,” he said, and his smile
faded. He ducked through the doorway and stepped into the little
space. His head cleared the overhead by only two or three inches.
He brought with him the scent of fresh salt air, and traces of
porter and someone’s pipe tobacco. Looking at the half-plucked
chicken in her blood-smeared hands, he nodded at it.
“
They
aren’t doing
without, are they?” he asked, meaning the officers. “I wasn’t able
to convince Morton to give you more rations.” He related the second
mate’s explanation. “It’s sorry I am,
céadsearc
. He wouldn’t budge. So I
told him we’d take care of our own, just as we always
have.”

Her hands fell still. “But how? There
is so little to go round.”

“
Aye, well, we can give a
bit, and I’ll convince those with more to provide.”

She looked at the chickens again.
“Maybe when I cut these up for stew, the men might not notice if a
leg or wing is missing.”

He shoveled a hand through his dark
hair. “Aye, and how will you decide who’ll get the leg or wing,
while the rest watch? Nay, lass, that won’t do.”

“
I could make broth,” she
proposed. Then she sighed at the futility of it. Someone would be
sure to notice an extra kettle on the stove, and even then, there
probably wouldn’t be enough to around. “I suppose you’re right.”
Turning a sharp eye on him, she asked, “So that was why you were
grinning like Mary’s donkey at the doorway? To deliver this
news?”

The smile reappeared. “What if I told
you that we won’t be sleeping on deck tonight?”

Her shoulders drooped with
disappointment. “Oh, no! Is it raining again?” She craned her neck,
trying to see around him through the open door. What could a body
expect in the North Atlantic in late winter besides
rain?

“
Yes it’s raining, but
that’s not what I’m talking about.”

But all she heard was the state of the
weather. The prospect of spending the night in steerage filled her
mind. “Dear God, I can’t sleep in that hold, it’s so brutal down
there. I know the poor souls don’t mean to be sick,
but—”

Aidan took her shoulders and turned
her toward him, mindful of the mess in her hands. “Whisht now,
little red one. Will ye be throttling that chicken all over
again?”

She looked down and realized she was
squeezing the limp fowl’s neck. She loosened her grip and looked up
into Aidan’s gaze.

He released one of her shoulders and
reached into his coat pocket to produce a tarnished brass key on a
short, braided leather thong. He looked quite pleased with
himself.

“
What’s that?”

“
This, Mrs. O’Rourke, is the
key to our room for tonight.”

Her brows rose. “Our
what
? Are ye having me
on, Aidan?”

“
No. While I was visiting
with Mr. Morton, we played a few hands of cards. Ye know, just to
be friendly-like. When I won all of his pocket money, I suggested
that he might wager his cabin.” He shrugged. “He lost.”

“
No!” Farrell was impressed
despite her mild disapproval of his gambling.

“
Aye, and look at this.” He
reached into his pocket again and brought out a handful of money.
Her eyes widened at the sight. “There’s nearly a pound here.” He
put a coin in her apron pocket. “I owe ye a shilling and six.
Here’s thruppence on account.”

“
Ye shouldn’t be gambling
and I don’t know that I want money gained that way.”

He waved her off. “The man wanted to
play cards. Who was I to say no?”

“
But what about Mr. Morton?
Where will he sleep?”

He waved a hand. “He said he’ll bunk
with the lads in the forecastle.” He told her about the hand of
cards that had won them this bounty. He’d wagered her sixpence,
somehow turning it into extra money and a cabin for them. On top of
that, he had left the second mate in fine spirits and feeling as if
he’d done Aidan a good turn.

So Farrell would be sharing that room
with her husband tonight, a prospect she viewed with disquiet.
Sleeping on deck, or even in the hell that was steerage, had
prevented any intimacy between them. He’d not so much as kissed her
cheek since they’d set sail, and that had been fine with her.
Tonight that would change. Those sturdy, capable hands that had
smashed faces in fights and soothed the neighborhood children’s
scraped knees, his lips, that big body—he’d be right next to her
with more privacy than they’d had since that dreadful night at The
Rose and Anchor when he’d tried to claim his husbandly rights. A
tingling shiver raced over her scalp and down her back.

She looked at the key he held and felt
as if it were as dangerous as a serpent. God in heaven, she
thought, how did Aidan do it? How did he manage to convince others
to do his bidding? He had the gift of blarney, that was sure, with
a wee bit of diplomacy thrown in for good measure. Where he’d
learned the latter, she couldn’t imagine because she’d never seen
much evidence of it back home. He also had a gift for card-playing
and gambling in general.

“
Well, I have to finish this
business”—she gestured at the chicken—“and then tend to Deirdre
Connagher and Mrs. Dougherty below.” Although a ship’s captain
often acted as physician at sea, all McCorry knew of doctoring,
when he could be bothered, was amputation and purging. At least
that was what she’d overheard from Mr. Quisenberry. Trying to
follow in the footsteps of St. Brigit, Farrell had assumed the job
of seeing after the passengers, and they were happy to have one of
their own dosing them. She couldn’t do much for them, but she did
her best with the medicine chest at her disposal.

“
Must ye see to them
tonight?” Aidan asked.

“
St. Brigit would have me do
no less.”

Of all the saints on the calendar,
Brigit was Farrell’s favorite. True, Father Joseph taught them that
Brigit had become a nun after St. Patrick baptized her. But
Farrell’s elderly Aunt Kathleen had told her that Brigit had been a
loving and powerful Celtic goddess long before that, and the early
people had worshiped her as the mother of the earth, goddess of
healing, the crafts, fire, poetry, and farming. In Kildare, a
sacred, eternal fire had been kept burning in her honor, attended
only by women. Later, when the Church realized that the Irish would
not abandon Brigit, they canonized her and built a convent on the
site of her shrine. At least that was what Kathleen had told
her.