Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
G race watched the door for a few moments after Lord Carew left through it, as if it would give her answers. She was frozen into immobility by the chill and the thought of undressing in his cabin, but what he said was reasonable. No one could see in the windows in the middle of the Channel, and she could not stand there and freeze to death.
She pulled her wet clothing off as best she could, grateful that the dress she’d worn that day was practical enough not to need a maid.
She re-wrapped herself in the other side of the flannel that was mostly dry and waited for him to return. When he did, he knocked on the door, then opened it a crack to shove some clothing through.
“I’m sorry it is not a dress, but these clothes will have to do for now. At least they are dry,” he said through the door.
“True enough. Thank you.”
When she made to close the door, he held it open.
“Hand me your wet clothes. We have a place to dry them near the fire in the kitchen.”
She hesitated.
“No one will see your undergarments, lass,” he said rather softly, understanding her reluctance. “It will take ten times as long to dry here in this cabin and you’ll be in the boy’s clothing longer.”
She knew he was right, but it did not make it any less mortifying.
“Very well.” She handed him her sopping wet clothing balled up, then quickly put on the rough cotton shirt, breeches, and stockings. She felt ridiculous and even a bit scandalous with no shift for modesty. She would just have to keep the flannel about her.
Lord Carew returned much too quickly, and she wondered if she should go back to her small cabin. But the thought of being cooped up in that dark room was about as appealing as eating raw turnips.
“Would you like me to return to my cabin?” she asked, thinking it wasn’t really her decision to make.
“I thought we could play cards or chess, unless you wish to return to your story.” He angled his head towards the book, which lay closed on the bench.
“You do have a rather nice selection of novels.”
“It helps pass the time. I buy them for my sister, then I also read them so I know what she’s talking about. They are amusing, mostly, if not ridiculous.”
“I love escaping into stories and imagining that I am in another place,” she admitted, and then blushed, realizing how freely she’d spoken.
“I can understand that. Sometimes I’d like to go beyond England and Ireland. But for now, it is not possible.”
“Is your sister in danger?” She watched him closely as he narrowed his gaze.
“Aye.”
Grace nodded and whispered, “I am truly sorry. I never meant to add to your worries.”
“’Tis quite a predicament we are in. I know you did not stow away on purpose, but I hope you understand why I cannot afford the time to take you back.”
“What kind of danger is she in, your sister?”
Lord Carew pointed to one of the benches at the table and she sat down. He pulled a chess set from a shelf and set it on the table then sat down himself.
“I am not very good,” she warned.
He shrugged. “It passes the time.” He waved his hand for her to go first, and she moved her white queen pawn forward.
He raised his brow at what must have been an amateur move, then moved his own king knight. “For centuries, there has been a feud between the families of Flynn and Donnellan.
She moved another pawn, allowing him to tell the story.
“Both families live on Kenmare Bay, one to the north and one to the south. Naturally, both families believe they own the bay. It provides access to the Atlantic as well as towards England and the Continent.”
Grace looked up. “They cannot share?” As the fourth of five sisters, sharing had been ingrained in her very early on. His look made her feel as though she could not understand.
“It would be too easy to share.”
She looked at him with astonishment.
He held a pawn up in his hand. “’Tis the way of things, lass. Control of land and water is power.”
She had to confess, the way he said lass was enchanting. He seemed to forget to use proper English diction once he left its shores. She rather liked the Irish lilt.
“So they have always fought?”
“The stories go back for many generations at least.”
“So there is some kind of trouble now?”
“The son of the current baron is a scoundrel. He has threatened to make off with my sister if I do not return and negotiate by Samhain.”
“The pagan holiday?”
“Very fitting, is it not?” He scowled. “He can only make these threats when I am away.”
“Does your sister know?”
Carew growled deep in his throat. “Oh, yes. But she is completely taken with him.”
“How was she able to know him if your families hate each other? Would you not avoid each other?”
“Normally that was the case. People knew better than to invite both families to the same events. However, the region is small, and at times it could not be avoided, such as the end of harvest festival. I had escorted Maeve there, and she ran off with friends. The next thing I knew, she was dancing with the blackguard.”
“Did she know who he was?”
“Aye, but Maeve thought she could convince him to see the error of his ways—end the feud with friendship. Flynn is also a handsome devil at that.” His lips twisted sardonically, as though he was not the most handsome man she’d ever seen himself.
“What did Maeve say afterwards?”
“That it was just a dance, and not to worry myself. I should have known that would not be the end of it.”
Grace gasped. “You mean she would go willingly?”
“She is young and doesn’t understand he means to get to me through her. She is deceived by a pair of beautiful green eyes and a serpent’s tongue.”
Grace could understand that as she looked into a pair of fathomless deep blue ones.
“But what kind of man takes his bride in such a way? She gets nothing out of it but him. If he actually means to marry her. He’s not above ruining her. It’s more what I’d expect.”
“He sounds worse than a scoundrel!” Grace exclaimed in mortification.
“He waits until I am away since my father is not strong enough to protect the family. My poor mother is beside herself.”
Grace felt for him. All this time she had known him, she had never known any of this about him, having only ever thought of him as the care-for-naught people described him as. Was it all an act? She did not know him very well at all, she realized. “Is your sister of an age to choose him for herself?”
“Almost, and Flynn knows it. Her birthday is just past Samhain and I must get there in time to convince her it would be a horrible mistake. I would rather give in to his demands than see my sister bound to him in misery for life.”
“What are his demands?”
“The rights to Kenmare Bay.”
“Show me where it is.” Grace rose from the table and walked over to the map on the wall. She tried not to watch as he rolled up his sleeves, and busied herself finding Ireland and studying it more closely than she ever had before. He leaned over her and pointed to a finger-like projection. This is the Kenmare Peninsula, which is my family’s land. This is Flynn’s land.” He pointed to another area of land that jutted out from the main island.
“So this bay in between is what he wants control of?” She barely managed to speak because his nearness was disconcerting her.
“Yes.” He stepped back and she was able to breathe.
Carew returned to the table and waited for her to come back before sitting. Grace glanced at the map once more, thinking she would study it better once he was gone. There were so many questions she wished to ask, but he seemed disinclined to explain further. She could, however, discern that whatever conflict lay between him and this Flynn fellow, it had deeply affected him.
Carew moved his knight, capturing her bishop with a deft slide of the piece across the board.
Grace bit her lip, staring at the board. She knew she was going to lose; it was becoming increasingly clear as she struggled to decide her next move. Even a distracted Carew revealed a much keener mind than she had anticipated. She supposed she didn’t mind losing to him, though.
As she pondered her predicament, her thoughts wandered. She marvelled at how she could feel so drawn to someone with such a rakish reputation—something that should have repulsed her entirely. Perhaps it had been his beauty that captivated her from afar, but proximity to him only heightened her awareness of her own inadequacies. Yet here, forced together on this voyage, her reticence was slipping away, and she was unsure whether that was a good or a dangerous thing. After all, he had evidenced none of the rakish behaviours she had so feared—at least, not aboard this ship.
Without fully thinking it through, she nudged a pawn forward. Carew’s eyebrow arched, and his lips curled into that wry smile she was beginning to recognize.
Was she mistaken, or was there a new warmth in his eyes? The realization made her heart pound uncomfortably. She forced her gaze back to the board.
“Checkmate,” he pronounced, sliding his queen into position, cutting off her king’s escape.
She laughed, despite herself. “Defeated.”
“Indeed,” he said, standing and grabbing the oilskin coat draped over the back of the door. “I should go and see how Fergus does.” He sounded almost hurried, as though eager to escape, and left before she could respond.
Grace sighed and leaned back in her chair. She reached over to stroke Theo. The kitten had made himself at home on the edge of the table. “I must have been mistaken, Theo,” she murmured softly. But her heart still fluttered, betraying her uncertainty.
Ronan had to get out of this cabin. This new Grace was unexpected and uncomfortable. No, in fact, he wasn’t uncomfortable, which was the problem. He was enjoying her company, which made him uncomfortable.
He’d never thought twice about this timid Whitford sister before, but he’d never taken the time to look. She was much of an age with his sister, but it was not that so much as he’d always been attracted to a confident, outspoken sort of woman. More like her elder sister, though that had never been a serious interest. The devil inside him had enjoyed toying with Westwood.
So what was wrong with him now? It was inexplicable. Beautiful women threw themselves at him all the time, and he was not even being arrogant about it. He wasn’t an eyesore and he held a title, even if it was an Irish one. What was special about Grace Whitford to make him feel this way? He must be coming down with something.
He’d found himself talking about his feud with Flynn, which he never spoke of to anyone save his family. Then he’d had to stop himself as they studied the map. Something about her had drawn him dangerously close, and he began envisioning things that were not entirely wholesome. He had caught himself just in time. Grace Whitford deserved better than him, but he was becoming more and more concerned that he was precisely who she was going to get—like it or not.
He was also becoming more and more certain that this feud with Flynn would be a fight to the death. The last time he had tried reasoning with Flynn, the man had laughed in his face.
It would be hard for Grace if she was to become too attached. She’d have his name, and then be free.
More concerning was what would become of Maeve, who was the innocent pawn in all of this nonsense. He’d love nothing better than to put an end to all of it for good. Except Flynn was determined to ruin his family’s honour one way or another, which left Ronan no choice.
As he climbed on deck, he welcomed the rain in his face. He relieved Fergus from the wheel and contemplated what was next. If this was to be his lot, then he would face it bow to the wind. Although, ironically, the bow was facing the non-existent wind at the moment and they were literally going nowhere. The rain was coming straight down, indicating that the storm was not going to be blowing away soon. The Channel weather was notoriously fickle, but rarely dead still. Ronan needed his luck to change and quickly. This could not be a foreshadowing of what was to come. He could not allow himself to think that way.
Ronan leaned forward over his hands, resting across the railing, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders and allowing a moment of self-pity. He knew he could not indulge for long and needed to use his energies to form a plan, but sometimes it was just too much.
He slammed his fist down on the helm impatiently. He needed to be doing something useful, and the cursed ship could not even be sailing to help. They could be stuck for days, but he did not think it likely. Calm and rational was what he needed to remain, but he’d heard stories of ships being caught in the doldrums for weeks. God knew what would become of his sister and family if that happened. He prayed earnestly for wind to set them moving again, and that Westwood would come to fetch his sister-in-law before her fate was disastrously set with Ronan himself.
“Captain?”
Ronan stood straight and turned around. He had not heard Fergus approach.
“What is it, mate?”
It must be important for Fergus to return so soon after he’d been relieved from the wheel. His eyes shifted nervously.
“Speak, man. What is it?”
“The men are agitated.”
“About what?” Ronan knew, but he needed him to say it, and hopefully realize how ridiculous it was.
“The crew thinks the bad luck is due to the girl.”
“And what do you think, Fergus?”
“It does seem mighty suspicious that we’re suddenly stuck in the Channel. We’ve never been stuck in the Channel before.”
“And you think that slip of a girl controls the weather?”
“I could not say, Cap’n, but the crew is talking wild already and it hasn’t been more than a few hours yet.”
“And what is it they wish me to do, precisely?”
“Row her to the shore, sir.”
The shore that was very likely twenty miles away.
Ronan cursed. “Can you not talk them down? The last thing I need is a mutinous crew. It’s just the bloody Channel and as soon as this passes,” he waved at the sky, “we will be on our way.”
“Might I suggest something to pacify them?”
Ronan looked askance. “You mean give them extra grog so they will not care who or what happens to the ship?”
“Aye.”
Ronan ran a frustrated hand over his face. “It could go awry. They could become more belligerent.”
“They could,” Fergus admitted.
“How about a compromise? They shut up and trust me and they will not be turned off when we make it to Ireland safely!” he barked.
Fergus puffed his cheeks, then blew out a breath.
“Shall I talk to them again? Truss them up like one of the horses and throw them in the brig?”
“I will speak to them.” Fergus backed away warily.
Ronan had been in a sour mood before and now it was downright putrid, but it wasn’t his crew’s fault. Not entirely. “Give them an extra measure of grog for now,” Ronan called after his second. “I don’t want them cup-shot!”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Fergus called and continued hurrying away before Ronan changed his mind.
Unfortunately, the winds were no better when O’Brien and Kelly came to relieve his watch several hours later.
They approached him cautiously. They must have heard he was in the devil’s own mood.
“Are the crew still mutinous?”
“Aye, Cap’n. They’ve been sitting idle all day. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
“So instead of being grateful for being taken out of the miserable weather, they sit down there and stew about the girl.”
O’Brien shrugged.
“Very well. Call for all hands on deck. They shall be idle no longer.”
A shrill whistle followed this order, which subsequently produced a loud stomping and herding noise akin to stampeding cattle, though they only numbered near twenty. Soon, his crew was lined up, standing at attention as best they could through the pouring rain, looking at him like he was about to send them to their deaths in Davy Jones’ locker.
“I will send them to their sleep too exhausted to think about any silly superstitions,” he muttered before telling O’Brien to put them to work. “I want them swabbing the deck, pumping the bilges, working the rigging. Mending sails is too docile a job.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” O’Brien turned and began ordering the men to their duties.
As for himself, Ronan climbed the rigging, not asking anything of his men he would not do himself. He needed to work so hard that he could think of nothing but the sheer pain of his muscles straining while he struggled to maintain his grip in the rain. He was just finishing a repair when the men stopped singing—if one were being generous enough to call vulgar sea shanties singing—and he looked down with a frown to see what was the matter.
He saw the looks of his men’s faces before he saw the cause. His oldest crewman was scowling fiercely and Ronan followed his gaze. There stood Grace Whitford in her boy’s breeches at the door of the companionway. She wore one of his oilskins draped about her shoulders and head, which did nothing to hide the wet clothing clinging to her long legs.
“ Oinseach ,” he muttered to himself.
The members of his crew began crossing themselves and muttering Irish curses; some began to spit. Ronan swung down the rigging as fast as possible to put himself between them and the girl before they revolted and threw her overboard.
“Go inside now, ye daft lass! Lock the door, and do not come out again!” he yelled. The look on her face as it crumbled into fear and shame as she turned to flee his wrath shot an arrow straight through his heart. He cursed roundly, then turned towards his men. He was ready for a fight. “Who of you wants to be thrown in the brig for the rest of the journey?”
The look on his face must have frightened them, for they all turned back to their duties without another word.
Once they began moving again, he would make them apologize. He should also post a guard at Grace’s door, but there was no one he completely trusted at the moment beyond himself or Paddy, who would be no match for any of the men. With a heavy sigh, he knew he would also have to apologize later. But first, he needed more hard labour of his own.