Authors: Danelle Harmon
“You’re shameless, Rhiannon Evans Merrick.”
“I just have a good teacher.”
Her hand now hidden beneath her own skirts, she traced her fingernail along his arousal, swelling thick and hard beneath the rough canvas of his pantaloons. It was a wicked, sinful feeling with a sense of urgency about it to be doing these things out here in broad, albeit fading, daylight where anyone might come along and see. She heard his breathing change in pitch as she explored him through the fabric, and delighted in watching the effects of her newfound power over him, delighted in the fact that she could make him helpless, because even if she could not make him love her, well, she could make him want her and maybe, for now, that had to be good enough.
For now.
Maybe some day he will come to love me. Some day, when he realizes he doesn’t have to be his father, that he doesn’t have to try so hard, that he has nothing to prove to anyone, when—
He was kissing her again, his breath coming hot against her cheek, one hand lifted to massage her breast through the light muslin of her gown until she, too, was breathing as harshly as he.
She felt the familiar heat building in her blood as his kiss became more urgent, a delicious onslaught against not only her mouth and tongue, but her senses themselves. Growing desperate now herself, Rhiannon unbuttoned him and suddenly his hard, hot length was in her hand. He groaned. The kiss deepened. She stroked him, squeezed him, and then rubbed her thumb once, twice, over the head, delighting in the increased tempo of his breathing, the sound of her own pulse growing quicker in her ears. At last he reached down and caught her hand, his pale, sea-colored gaze locked intently on her dark green one as he broke the kiss.
“You’re a wicked woman, Rhiannon, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
“Come inside me, Connor. If you can.”
His eyes smiled, and little crinkle lines fanned out from their corners. “If I
can
?”
“We’re squashed together on a narrow hammock that is bowed beneath our weight. It’s not like there’s a bed beneath us.”
“My oh my, do you have a lot to learn.”
And with that, he stroked her own inner flesh until she was panting and gasping. Then, shifting position, he hooked a thumb in her drawers, pulled them down as she willingly lifted her hips to accommodate him, and maneuvered her atop himself. Beneath them, the hammock moved wildly for a moment and then settled, swinging gently back and forth.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on the top?” she asked, puzzled.
He just grinned and, his hands bracketing her hips, lifted her up and off him. “Put me inside of yourself, Rhiannon.”
Squeezed within the tight confines, she found him once more. She adjusted her own position until he was poised at her entrance, now damp and slick with her own readiness for him.
“I want you, Rhiannon,” he murmured, his eyes darkening as she slowly rubbed him back and forth along her cleft, teasing them both. “Our marriage might have been forced, but by God, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
And with that, he lowered her down atop himself and entered her, the huge, hot length of him beginning to fill her, to stretch her, deeper and deeper, inch by delicious inch, until they lay locked together, both of them now trembling with need.
“Take me, Connor,” she breathed as his hands, hard with callous but sensitive enough to know just how to pleasure her, began to lift her up on top of himself and then to lower her back down, building a rhythm that would take them all the way to where they both wanted to go. “Make me yours all over again.”
She tried to reach down to kiss him, but with the bow of the hammock it was impossible and all she could do was lay there, speared on his shaft, lifted up and down by his powerful hands until she felt a searing climax beginning to build within her, until she bent her head and bit her lip and began to whimper deep in her throat, until with a sudden groan, he stiffened and spilled his seed deep within her A moment later her own senses shattered; she cried out and convulsed all around his still-quivering shaft, and then, as she all but collapsed on top of him, his fingers found her hidden, swollen bud and stroked her hard until she came a second time . . . a third.
They lay there together, both damp and panting, the hammock swinging like a cradle beneath them. The shadows lengthened. Eventually they separated, and she settled down to lie beside him, tucked up against him with his arm holding her close, her head pillowed in the cup of his shoulder.
“I wish we could stay here all afternoon,” Rhiannon murmured, idly tracing the groove of his breastbone with her fingers.
He stretched, put a foot out and down, and rested it on the ground below so that he could idly rock them back and forth in a gentle, peaceful motion. “Well, we can stay here until the mosquitoes come out, at least.”
“I can hear your heart beating beneath my ear.”
“Good. Nice to know I’m still alive after that.”
She laughed and inched a little further up so that she could look over at him. A dark shadow cloaked his jawline, and in the late afternoon light his lips looked sculpted, firm, and noble. She reached up and put her forefinger into one of the loose curls that hung down over his forehead, stretching it out and watching it spring back, admiring the thick, glossy waves of his hair and thinking he was quite possibly—no, quite probably—the most handsome man on earth.
A god, she had thought, when she’d first met him.
He glanced over at her, smiling. “Have you given any more thought about where you’d like to make our home once we leave here, dearest?”
“I’d be happy to live in Newburyport with you, Connor. I adore your family . . . your father, your mother, even Liam Doherty. And if Toby and Nathan are also there, well, it makes it all the better.”
“How so?”
“I lost my mother and father when I was young, and had only Gwyneth and Morganna. I didn’t have a big family, and even though I love my sisters, my place is with you. Your family is now mine. If you promise that we can go to England once a year to visit with my sisters, I would love to make my home in Newburyport with you.”
“You’re a treasure, dearest heart. And I would be happy to bring you to England as often as you like.” He grinned, and she saw the tiredness coming into his smile, into his eyes. “Or rather, as often as I can slip past the blockade.”
“I’m sure, Connor, that if your father can do it, then so can you.”
He smiled, his eyes slipping shut. “How nice that you have such faith in me.”
“I’ve seen you in action, remember.”
“Mmm, well, you are about to see me out of action, because I’m getting quite sleepy . . . nap with me, Rhiannon?”
He lay on his back. She, on her side facing him, was already snuggled as close as she could get to him, his powerful arm curving around behind her neck and shoulders, her body lying alongside his, dwarfed by it, warmed by it, sheltered by it.
This is heaven, she thought.
She wondered what life would be like in Newburyport, an American town, foreign and far away and with a climate that was surely colder than Britain’s could ever be. But Connor would be there. His family, tight-knit, quirky, warm, delightful, and already embracing her as one of their own, would be there. She didn’t care where they lived as long as she could be with this man for the rest of her days, and to have her new family there made it all the sweeter. She put her palm over her husband’s heart, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, listening to his breathing slow and grow rhythmic as he relaxed beneath her and the hammock stopped its slow swinging as his foot, eternally restless, finally fell still.
She knew, with the intuition of the intimately connected, the exact moment he fell asleep and left her. She moved her head to look up at him, at his angular jaw, his slightly parted lips, his dark lashes lying fanlike against his cheeks.
“You are beautiful,” she whispered, her heart swelling with emotion as she gazed upon him. “And I love you.”
His other arm lay over his chest, the fingers lax, and as she settled back down against the cup of his shoulder and looked at that hand . . . the small scar between thumb and forefinger, the short, well groomed nails, the length of the fingers, the breadth and strength across the back of the palm, she saw something she had not noticed before.
His little pinkie was crooked and bent, not coming straight off the knuckle like the rest of his fingers, but at a slight angle to it. Idly, she wondered if he’d gotten it caught in rigging, or injured it in some way aboard ship. Heaven knew there were a thousand ways for a mariner to get hurt. She yawned, and blinked, and looked again at that slightly crooked finger, and eventually fell asleep to the sound of his heart beating steadily beneath her ear.
Chapter 27
Several days later Brendan, accompanied by an exuberant Ned, rowed himself out to
Kestrel
and asked permission to come aboard.
“For heaven’s sake, Da, she’s your ship. You don’t need to ask permission,” Connor said, reaching a hand down to help his father over the rail. “You and your formalities!”
“She may be my ship, but you’re her captain.”
“Yes, but you were her first. And, her best.” He grinned as the elder Merrick respectfully removed his tricorne as his feet touched the deck. “And when are you going to get rid of that dreadful hat?”
His father gave a distracted smile but didn’t rise to the old joke. “Do you have a moment, Con?”
Connor saw the tension in his father’s face and his teasing grin immediately faded. “Of course.” He beckoned to his cousins and One-Eye, lounging near the stern. “Toby! Go find a drop-line and see if you can show Ned here how to catch a fish.”
“Aye, Con. I’d be happy to.”
Brendan mustered a smile as the youth approached. “Faith, Toby, you grow another inch every time I see you. Your parents aren’t going to recognize you when we get you back to Newburyport.”
“I wish
I
could go to Newburyport!” Ned cried. “Can you take me?”
“Your mother would skin me alive,” Connor said.
“Yes, when
are
we going back to Newburyport?” asked Nathan, coming up to shake his uncle’s hand. “I’m sick of this heat and we’re about as low on crew as it’s possible to get and still sail the old lady home.”
“That’s what I came to talk to you about.” Brendan waited until Toby had led Ned off to the stern, then went to one of the starboard guns and leaned wearily against its truck. “Your mother isn’t feeling well. She wants to go home.”
“Mother? Not feeling well? What’s the matter?”
“I think the heat is getting to her. She’s a New Englander and not made for this climate. Neither am I, for that matter. But she’s not herself, and that worries me.” Brendan cast a glance toward Ned, who was busily lowering a drop line off the schooner’s stern while Toby looked on. “Kieran wants to stay here and visit with his sister. I was hoping you’d take us home in
Kestrel
.”
“Sure, Da. We can leave any time you wish.”
“How long will it take you to provision?”
“We could be out of here on tomorrow’s tide.”
“Good. I’ll tell Maeve, then. She’ll be disappointed, but I think it’s best we leave sooner rather than later.” He took off the old black tricorne, ran a hand through hair that was still as thick and tousled as his son’s, and replaced the hat. “Probably just as well, anyhow. The old lady here needs to spend some time in the yard. Her frames beneath the planking are rotting, you know.”
“She’s as seaworthy as the day she was launched.”
“No, she is not. She needs work in places that a body can’t see, Connor. Trust me on that.”
“She’s
fine
, Father. You worry too much.”
A shadow came over Brendan’s face at his son’s use of the formal word.
Father
. But he said nothing, and reached out to touch
Kestrel
’s smooth, varnished rail.
“Besides,” Connor said, noting his father’s uncharacteristic demeanor, “how would you know such a thing?”
“Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. And furthermore, I know something else and so does Sir Graham.” He shot a sideways glance to his son. “Something about a certain convoy being plucked clean by a mysterious, sharp-sailing Yankee topsail schooner?”
Connor grinned and rubbing his jaw, caught Nathan’s eye.
“You’ve worn out your welcome here, lad. All the more reason to go home before you force your brother-in-law to throw you in jail.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t underestimate him. You’ve put him in a ticklish spot, with his duty and his men’s expectations on one side and his wife’s family on the other. I don’t envy the man.”
“When did he learn of this . . . Yankee schooner?”
“He got a dispatch this morning—and a formal request for his help in finding and apprehending certain
said schooner
. You try his patience, Connor, and this time you’ve gone too far.”
“Nothing like an angry British admiral.”
“Your father here isn’t too happy about it, either.”
“Yes, right, I’d forgotten. You sided with the Federalists. You were against this war from the beginning, you who made your fortune during the last one and would deny me the chance to do the same. You’d probably be just as happy to see New England secede and join the British, wouldn’t you?”
“Easy, Con,” Nathan said, putting a hand on his cousin’s arm.
But Brendan did not rise to Connor’s tightly-voiced taunt. Instead, he turned and smiled as Rhiannon, garbed in a mint green muslin gown and wearing a bonnet to protect her face from the sun, came up from below.
“Good morning, lass!”
“Hello, Brendan,” she said, and instead of offering her hand, happily allowed herself to be swept up in his strong, wiry arms. But something wasn’t right here; she could see it in Connor’s tense stance and tight mouth, and in her father-in-law’s troubled eyes, normally so carefree and laughing.
“Is everything all right?”
“We’ll be weighing anchor tomorrow and heading home to New England,” Connor snapped. “Mother is not feeling well, and Sir Graham would like my head on a pike to parade through the streets. I’ll send you back with my father and Ned so you can collect your things from the house and make your farewells.”
“But this is so sudden. . . .”
At that moment there was an excited squeal as Ned pulled a fish up over the transom with Toby’s help. Holding the wriggling creature in his bare hands, the boy came running toward them, his face glowing. “Grandpa! Uncle Connor and Aunt Rhiannon! Look what we caught!”
As Rhiannon exclaimed over the boy’s catch and Connor proclaimed it bigger than any fish he’d ever seen, Brendan knelt down and examined the animal. Its gills were desperately opening and closing. “That’s a fine fish you have there, Ned. And now, unless you intend to eat him for supper tonight, I think you should let him go before he dies.”
“Of course, Grandpa. I don’t want him to die.” Carefully carrying the fish, the boy hurried back to the side, leaning far out over the rail so as to lessen the drop to the water as he released it.
“Little lad’s got a good heart,” said Brendan, his eyes fond as he watched his grandson.
“Aye, he sure does.”
“Well, I’m off now to go check on your mother. Will we see you at dinner tonight?”
“Nay, I’ve work to do here. Give everyone my farewells.”
“You’ll be missed, Son.”
Connor just shrugged.
“I know that you and Maeve don’t always see eye-to-eye, and Sir Graham is in a tough spot with wondering how to deal with you, but think of how it’ll affect the twins if you don’t come to say goodbye.” He glanced at his grandson, waiting eagerly by the rail. “And little Ned.”
Connor’s gaze slid helplessly to his nephew, and he sighed in despair.
“Aye, Da. I’ll be there.”
* * *
Their last meal on Barbados was one of stuffed fowl, shellfish, hot bread with guava jelly, rum, and a sugar cake that was much the better for the fact that Mira Merrick, who had skipped the meal and kept to her room with a headache, had had nothing to do with its creation.
Tension hung in the air. Sir Graham purposely avoided making conversation or eye contact with Connor. Connor’s smile was tight, his manner flippant, his foot beating a relentless tap-tap-tap beneath the table until Rhiannon finally squeezed his hand and managed to quiet him. Alannah Cox made an excuse to leave the uncomfortable atmosphere as soon as dessert was served and Delmore Lord followed suit a few moments later. Someone commented about the weather, which was unremarkable. Finally Brendan, his eyes dark with worry, excused himself to go be with his wife, and Ned, who had been uncharacteristically subdued all night, climbed up onto his uncle’s lap with a book in his hand.
“Do you all really have to leave tomorrow, Uncle Connor?”
“Aye, lad. We really have to leave. But perhaps Rhiannon and I will come back in the springtime. Or your mother and da will bring you north so you can spend the summer with us in Newburyport. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“I’m going to miss you,” the little boy said, his bottom lip quivering before he quickly looked down at his book to hide his unmanly display.
“I’m going to miss you too, Ned.” And then, to distract his nephew from his coming tears, “What’ve you got there, eh?”
“My favorite book,
Robinson Crusoe
. I was hoping you’d read to me before Mama sends me to bed.”
For a moment, there was silence.
“Well, this ought to be interesting,” Maeve said cryptically.
Connor shot her a glare. “Stow it, Maeve.”
The boy was oblivious to the tension between the two. “Will you read to me, Uncle Connor?”
“It’s getting rather late, lad,” Connor said, a little too quickly. “We’ve got to be up early. Perhaps Auntie Rhiannon can read to you . . . I’m not very smart, you know. She’s got a better voice for storytelling than I do, anyhow.”
The boy’s face fell.
“How about I tell you a story, instead? Once, there was this huge ship called—”
“I don’t really want a story, Uncle Connor. I just wanted to have a last memory with you and my favorite book so that after you leave tomorrow, I wouldn’t be so sad. But never mind. I understand.”
The boy slid down from his uncle’s lap.
Connor began to fidget.
And Rhiannon, frowning, exchanged a glance with the equally confused Sir Graham.
What’s going on, here?
Damned if I know.
Rhiannon saw the stricken look on her husband’s face as Ned headed quietly for the door.
“The least you could do, Connor, is read him his favorite story,” Sir Graham said reprovingly. “It’s not that much to ask, is it?”
Rhiannon had never seen fear in her husband’s eyes. But in that brief instant, she saw a sudden flash of panic before he suddenly seemed to collect himself.
“Ned, lad.”
The child paused at the door and turned, the book still clutched in his hand.
“I’m sorry. I guess I can read to you.”
The boy ran back to his uncle and clambered up into his lap. Connor mustered a fleeting grin, cleared his throat and, taking a long time to open the faded, well-worn cover, finally put it on the table before him.
“Thank you, Uncle Connor. I know the story by heart . . . but I just wanted to hear it told in
your
voice.”
Rhiannon saw her husband take a deep breath and turn a page, then turn it back again and draw his brows close as he stared down at the print, little Ned snuggling comfortably against his shoulder.
Rhiannon smiled, anticipating the familiar words and wanting, like the child, to hear the beloved old tale in her husband’s deep, comforting voice:
I was born in the year 1632, in the City of
York
, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of
Bremen
. . . .
But Connor had not started reading. Instead he was biting his lip, peering down at the page in what appeared to be deep concentration, and doing everything he could to buy time.
“Uncle Connor?”
Connor Merrick began to read.
“I was . . . dorn in the year 1326, in the York of C-City, of— of a doog f-family—” he flushed, his face going crimson with humiliation—“th-though ton of th-that tunkrey. . . .”
A deep, awful, embarrassed hush fell over the room as the sudden realization sank in.
Connor slammed the book shut and glared up at the open-mouthed faces, the looks of astonishment and dawning pity all directed at him.
“So I never learned to read,” he said flippantly, but in his eyes Rhiannon saw his deep and abiding shame. “Is that such a crime?”
Sir Graham cleared his throat and looked away. Maeve stared morosely down at the floor and little Ned, still lying against Connor’s chest and shoulder, reached out and found his uncle’s hand.
“I don’t care if you can’t read, Uncle Connor. I love you just the same.”
Rhiannon wanted only to save her husband from further humiliation. “I think we should take our leave, Connor,” she said quietly. “We need to catch the tide first thing.”
But Sir Graham was staring at his brother-in-law. “If you can’t read, how the hell can you look at a chart and plot a ship’s course? Read manifests? A compass? What the devil kind of captain
are
you?”
“One who’s lucky enough to have a cousin named Nathan who does those things for me,” Connor shot back. “Never did guess, did you? None of you did. And now you know my shame. Now you know why I am the way I am, why I’ve spent my life trying to prove myself to be something I’m not, and what I’m not is smart. But I
am
smart enough not to stay here and have you all look at me with pity, and if you have nothing more to say about it, then neither do I.” He hugged the boy and gently set him down as he got to his feet. “Good evening. I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Back stiff with pride, he stalked to the door.
Rhiannon ran after him and caught up with him out in the hall.
“Connor, wait.”
He turned then, his eyes hard with humiliation and anger. “You married an idiot, Rhiannon. I’m sorry.”
Never slowing his pace, he continued toward the door and outside, wanting only to put as much distance as he could between himself and everyone back in that room who’d witnessed his ultimate humiliation. Ned, who idolized him. Sir Graham and Maeve. And his wife, who would never look at him with the same infatuated awe ever again, and in whose eyes and estimation he’d surely just plummeted. His wife, who now knew him to be less than a man. She, who liked to read books. She who
wasn’t
stupid, she who was all the things that he was not and could never be.
Oh, the mortification.
“Connor.”
He was nearly to the beach where the little boat, drawn up on the sand away from the tide, waited. Hands fisted, he turned, thankful for the darkness that hid the shame in his eyes.