Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
T hey moved to the dark, tiny cabin, but Grace was grateful for a door that would lock. Paddy followed her with Theo and a lantern and slid down to the floor since there was nowhere else to sit. The storm still raged on, the boat listing from side to side and front to back, causing Grace to hold on to the berth and try to think how she could possibly wake up from this nightmare and be in her soft, warm bed at Taywards instead.
“I wouldn’t like to be Kilroy just now,” Paddy said, wide-eyed and breathless.
“What do you think is happening?” Grace asked, but suspected she knew.
“The Captain is making mincemeat of him I’d wager. He’ll get the cat-o’-nine-tails to be sure.”
Grace sank on her knees to the floor. She did not know what that was, but it sounded horrid. “All because they think I’m cursed.”
Paddy wisely did not comment.
At least she hadn’t been sick again, she thought with twisted humour. Though every time the boat seemed to be lifted to the sky then drop, she expected the pukes—as Paddy referred to them—to return.
The sharp sound of hurried footsteps outside the cabin drew Grace's attention away from her thoughts. She had been trying to distract herself from what had just happened with Kilroy and the relentless swaying of the ship, but her nerves were still on edge.
“Unlock the door!” she heard Carew shout.
Paddy did as commanded. The cabin door swung open with a force that startled her, and there stood Carew, his face set in grim determination. Cradled in his arms was Barry, one of the younger sailors, his face pale and contorted with pain.
“Miss Grace, Paddy,” Carew said, his voice steady but clipped. “I need your help.”
Grace’s breath caught as she took in the scene. Barry’s arm hung at an unnatural angle, and though he tried to stifle his groans, they escaped through gritted teeth. The boy’s skin was ghostly, damp with sweat, and smudged with grime. Blood stained the torn sleeve of his shirt.
Grace stood and came to his side without hesitation. “What happened?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“He fell from the rigging,” Carew replied, carrying Barry through to his damaged cabin, then placing him on the table. His tone was brisk, but his movements were gentle as he eased the boy down. “His arm is broken, and he has cuts and bruises from the fall, but it could have been far worse. Paddy!” he barked, his voice carrying beyond the cabin.
“Aye, Captain?”
“Fetch clean water and cloths. Quickly,” Carew ordered. Paddy nodded and darted off.
Grace moved instinctively, gathering the spare linens from the storage chest near the corner of the cabin. “Is there anything else I should do?” she asked, glancing nervously at the injured boy.
Carew looked at her, his blue eyes steady. “You’ll need to help me splint his arm. Can you do that?”
She nodded, though her hands trembled slightly. “I can try.”
Barry groaned as Carew began cutting away the shredded remains of his sleeve with a small knife. His arm was a mangled mess. The bone protruded through the skin, and the swelling was already severe. That caused bile to rise in her throat, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. She forced herself to look at the boy’s face and steeled herself. The boy needed her, and this was no time for her weak stomach.
Paddy returned with a bucket of water and a stack of cloths, his face pale as he took in Barry’s condition. “Here, miss,” he said, handing them to Grace.
“Good,” Carew said, taking one of the cloths and dipping it into the water. “Grace, hold his arm steady while I clean the wound.”
Her heart pounded as she knelt beside Barry, gently gripping his arm as instructed. He flinched under her touch, his eyes screwed shut, and a whimper escaped his lips. “Be strong, Barry,” she murmured softly. “The Captain will make it right.”
Carew worked swiftly, cleaning the scrapes and assessing the break. His hands were sure and precise, yet there was a quiet compassion in his movements. “Paddy, find something sturdy for a splint—a length of wood, smooth and narrow,” he instructed.
As Paddy scurried off again, Grace dabbed Barry’s forehead with a damp cloth. His breathing was shallow, and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes despite his efforts not to cry. “You’re being very brave,” she told him, her voice calm despite her own inner turmoil. “We’ll have you patched up soon.”
Carew glanced at her, his expression softening for a brief moment. “Thank you,” he mouthed quietly before returning his attention to the task at hand.
When Paddy returned with a piece of smooth timber, Carew set about splinting the arm with Grace’s assistance. She held the boy as gently as she could, whispering soothing words as the Captain carefully aligned the limb and secured it in place with strips of linen. Barry cried out once, his voice raw with pain, but he did not resist.
Finally, the splint was in place, and Carew stepped back, wiping his hands on a cloth. “That should hold until we reach port,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact but laced with relief. He looked at Grace and Paddy. “Good work, both of you. Now fetch him a measure of grog to help him sleep, Paddy.” The boy scurried off again.
Grace sat back on her heels, her hands trembling now that the task was done. She felt a wave of pride that she had managed to keep her composure, even as her heart ached for the injured boy. “Will he mend?” she asked softly.
“With rest, I hope,” Carew replied. “Thank you.”
She met his gaze, feeling a strange warmth at his praise. “I was glad to help,” she murmured, though she knew it had been far more than she expected of herself.
After a measure of grog, Barry drifted into an uneasy sleep. Grace realized that the storm outside seemed less fierce, as though her own courage had somehow calmed the tempest.
Carew left to wash and put away the supplies he’d used, then attempted the repairs to the door latch that Kilroy had split open.
She sat quietly in the cabin, her gaze fixed on the boy now resting on the berth. Only moments ago, he had writhed in pain, his face contorted with agony as they worked to mend his broken arm. Now, to her relief, he had succumbed to the healing embrace of sleep. The rise and fall of his chest were steady, a small comfort amidst the chaos of this evening.
Her mind drifted to the rigging, impossibly high and treacherous even in calm weather. She had watched the sailors scurry up and down those ropes with an agility that seemed almost superhuman. That a boy should be sent aloft during a storm chilled her to the bone. How could such a task be required of someone so young, so vulnerable? The thought of Paddy up there, his small hands clutching the rigging as the wind howled and the rain lashed, sent a shiver down her spine. She knew enough of the world to understand that children often worked for a wage, but this—a life so fraught with danger—felt unbearable to contemplate.
And then there were the men. Her breath caught as her trembling began anew with all that had happened—how close to being thrown in the sea she’d been. These men truly believed her to be the cause of all their misfortunes, their anger and superstition so deeply ingrained that one of them had sought to end her life. Someone had wanted to murder her, and the realization was a blow that left her feeling fragile and exposed. But for Carew, she was certain she would have been cast into the sea, even now a feast for the sharks. It seemed unreal, yet hadn’t women been burned at the stake for similar things?
She wrapped her arms around herself, her fingers gripping the fabric of her clothing. The memory of Kilroy’s rage, the violent pounding on the door, and the moment the latch had begun to give—all of it replayed in her mind, each scene more horrifying than the last. How had it come to this? She had never imagined her quiet, unassuming life would lead her to the brink of hell.
The creak of the cabin door made her start, and she looked up to see Carew enter, holding tools. “The latch is repaired, you may rest there safely tonight. I’ll stand watch.”
There was a calmness about him, as though the events of the storm and the confrontation with Kilroy had left no mark upon him. He glanced briefly at the sleeping boy, his mouth curving into the faintest smile. “The grog works every time,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
“Why on earth would such a small boy be sent up the rigging in the midst of a violent storm?” she demanded, her indignation again overcoming her caution. “Surely, putting a child in such danger defies reason?”
Ronan met her gaze steadily, his expression tinged with both understanding and the weariness of experience. “I understand your concern, Grace,” he said evenly. “But the boys aboard a ship, even one as young as Barry, know the risks. They are raised to understand the sea’s dangers and the part they must play to keep us all alive.”
“But a child,” she pressed, her voice softening with incredulity. “Surely his life is worth more than the speed of climbing a mast.”
“Aye,” Ronan said, his tone steady but firm. “And it’s that very speed that can save lives. Barry’s size and agility make him better suited for tasks that even the strongest man might fail at in time. A delay in securing the sails could mean losing the ship—or worse.”
Grace hesitated, her concern shifting. “And now? What will become of him?”
Ronan sighed, his voice also softening. “Barry’s spirit won’t let him be idle for long. But I’ll see to it he takes on lighter tasks until he’s properly healed. It’s his world, Grace. The sea shapes us all—young or old.”
Grace studied him, marvelling at how he could behave so normally after such an ordeal. He had fought both the storm and a murderous giant with a composure she could scarcely fathom. And now here he was, as though it were any other day.
But when he turned and caught her gaze, his expression changed. His sharp eyes softened, and in that moment, he seemed to see everything: her fear, her inadequacy, her lingering thoughts of the men who had wanted her dead. She looked away, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
Evidently recognizing the state she was in, he set down the tools with a purposeful clatter, his movements brisk and efficient. “Grace,” he said gently, his voice low but firm. He crossed the small space between them, gathering her up in his arms. “You’re safe now.”
The warmth of his touch steadied her, but her throat burned with tears. “He wanted to kill me,” she whispered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
“I know, but he did not,” he replied, his tone resolute.
“But if you had not been here?—”
“I was here,” he interrupted, crouching slightly to meet her eyes. “I shall not let anyone near you again.”
His reassurance should have soothed her completely, but it only made her wonder what might happen next. What if the men turned on him for protecting her? What if the storm worsened? What if?—?
“Stop tormenting yourself,” he said, as though he could read her thoughts. “It is over.”
Confused by her feelings, she dared to look up into his face, to see if he might be feeling what she did not understand. His eyes were dark and intense, but he said nothing. Their breaths intertwined, and before she knew what was happening his soft lips were upon hers as though the butterfly had chosen its place. It was over with quickly—almost chaste but for the feelings it stirred inside her.
Not wanting the moment to end, she lowered her head against his chest. They stood like that for some time, as though he was also receiving some solace from her. He gently kissed the top of her head and whispered in Gaelic to her things she did not understand, but warmed her nonetheless.
For the first time that night, Grace allowed herself to relish the comfort of his presence. Grace felt, perhaps foolishly, that as long as he stood with her, everything would be well.
The storm, which had raged with fury, at last gave way to a blessed steady wind. The skies cleared, revealing a vast expanse of azure above, and the sea, though restless, rolled with a gentler rhythm. The Selkie surged forward, her sails filled with the brisk wind, as though eager to make up for time lost in the tempest. The mood aboard lightened with the weather, and Ronan knew if he brought Kilroy on deck for punishment, it could shatter the thin layer of peace they had settled into.
It was best to deal with him later, though normally he knew it was preferable to deal with discipline immediately. Punishment was the worst part of captaining a ship, he thought grimly, and would very likely shatter his own thin mask of being a gentleman. Thankfully, he did not have to captain a ship full-time. He did not know if his constitution could bear it.
Ronan had scarcely slept, the image of Grace’s pale face etched in his mind, her wide eyes betraying a fear she had been too brave to voice. That wretched Kilroy—his arrogance, his cruelty—it was a miracle Ronan had restrained himself from killing him. The impulse to strike the cur down, to make him pay for so much as looking at Grace with disdain, had burned hot in his chest. It was a fury unlike anything he had known, so raw and primal that it startled him. For a gentleman to lose control was unthinkable, and yet, in that moment, the thought of protecting Grace outweighed all else. And therein lay the rub. What was he to do with these feelings?
The question of what to do about Grace was far from simple. It was not merely a sense of duty or honour—no, that he could have accounted for, managed with reason and restraint. But this…this was something more, a protectiveness so fierce it bordered on possessive. The idea of her being hurt, frightened, or even spoken to without care was intolerable. It was similar to the rage he felt towards Flynn on Maeve’s behalf, was it not?
He’d almost lost control and fully kissed her last night. The feel of her trembling in his arms had been almost too much to withstand.
’Twould be for the best to protect her from a distance, with the polite indifference of an acquaintance. He could keep her safe from his crew and pray the weather held and the journey was swift. Four more days, if the sea goddess was kind. He scoffed mockingly.
All this, and he needed to turn his attentions to dealing with Flynn.
Ronan paced the length of his mate’s cabin, his thoughts as restless as his pacing. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, betraying an agitation he would never display before his crew. Flynn. The very name curdled his blood. That base, double-dealing scoundrel, whose every word dripped with false charm, now loomed like a storm cloud over all that Ronan held dear.
It was Maeve he thought of most—Maeve, his sister, whose bright spirit and generous heart had been both her greatest virtues and her gravest vulnerabilities. From the moment Flynn had manoeuvred an introduction to Maeve, Ronan should have perceived his intent. Flynn was no suitor besotted by Maeve’s wit or grace. He was a predator, circling his prey with cunning eyes, intent upon capturing her to exact revenge. And now, with Ronan away in England, the trap was sprung.
Ronan’s jaw tightened, his stride growing more forceful as he rehashed in his mind all he knew of the situation. Flynn had woven his web with care, insinuating himself into Maeve’s innocence, whispering falsehoods, until she had begun to trust him. Trust! The very notion was a bitter irony, for there was no man alive less worthy of it.
He paused at his berth and bowed his head. Could he have acted sooner? Should he have seen more clearly, intervened more decisively? The answers mattered little now; the time for regret was past. Action—swift and resolute—was all that remained.
Flynn had manipulated Maeve like a carefully crafted chess game, with Ronan the king he really longed to capture. He felt his stomach twist at the thought of Maeve bound to such a man—a lifetime’s torment for the price of a single moment’s carelessness and na?veté. No, he could not, would not, allow it.
And yet, Flynn was not a foe to be lightly dismissed. He was undeniably clever, and possessed of a ruthless nature. He would play this game with skill, anticipating each move, countering each defence. Carew could see the man’s smirk even now, as vividly as if he stood before him. Flynn would be waiting, confident that Ronan would arrive too late or act too rashly, leaving Maeve unprotected.
But Flynn had miscalculated. For whatever else the world might say of Lord Carew—none could accuse him of abandoning his duty—and Maeve was his duty. More than that, she was his family, his blood, the bright spot in a life too often shadowed by obligation and restraint. To fail her now would be to fail himself utterly.
Ronan straightened, his resolve hardening like steel tempered by fire. The same determination that drove his ship through the storm and tempest now propelled him forward. Flynn might think himself the master of this game, but he had not reckoned on Ronan’s will. Not with his sister at stake.
Flynn thrived on deception and manipulation; his success built on the ignorance of his adversaries. Ronan would deny him that advantage and dismantle Flynn’s schemes. There was no doubt in his mind that Flynn would be dishonourable. He knew Ronan would never agree to a holy union with Maeve, nor concede power.
And then there was Maeve herself. Ronan’s heart ached as he thought of her, alone and perhaps frightened, caught in a snare she had not even seen until it was too late. He had always strived to protect her, but had he done so at the cost of her independence? Had his watchfulness left her ill-prepared to recognize a villain like Flynn? These were questions he could not yet answer, but he vowed to make amends. Maeve’s spirit was too strong to be broken, too bright to be dimmed by a man like Flynn. Ronan would see to it that she regained her confidence and her freedom.
Turning from the berth, Ronan moved to the small window and gazed out at the restless sea. The horizon lay shrouded in mist, a veil of uncertainty over the days to come, but beyond it lay Ireland and with it the chance to set things right. He would see his sister safe, no matter the cost. Flynn might be clever, but Ronan’s determination was boundless, and when it came to Maeve, there was no force on earth that could stand in his way.
His thoughts turned back to the present, to Grace. He could not ignore her for the remaining days because he was a coward. He was unsure how he felt after he’d held her the night before. In the light of day, it could all have been some otherworldly experience between the storm, Kilroy, Barry, and the kiss.
It was becoming more difficult not to see Grace in the light of a desirable female. Who was he kidding? She certainly was that, but was he thinking differently because she would, most likely, be his wife? He still thought it best for her to find a more worthy man if she still had the choice.
Yet he could not seem to stop himself from thinking about her. It was difficult not to make excuses to visit the cabin. To want to dine with her—to check how Barry went on because he knew she’d be there.
It was, in fact, close to the midday meal—he could tell by the smell of roast pork coming up from the kitchen. As he walked in that direction, he decided it would be doing Paddy a favour since he had extra duties, so he went to fetch their trays, like the apparently besotted fool that he was.
It was no small feat to knock on the door holding two trays, but he decided to use his boot. Grace had been instructed to keep the door locked at all times, and he knew she would not need reminders as to why.
“It is I, lass.”
When he saw her smile, it both warmed his heart and terrified him. She looked at him with such tenderness and warmth and he knew he had best be careful or she would no longer have a choice in whom she married. He felt compelled to warn her, but they still had a few days until they reached Ireland and he told himself he’d behave in the way he would to Maeve.
“What has Cook prepared today?”
“Roast pork, if I’m not mistaken.”
Ronan stepped inside the cabin, balancing the trays carefully before setting them down on the small table. Grace had already begun clearing a space, her movements graceful and efficient. He watched her for a moment, taking in the way her hair caught the light filtering through the cabin window and the way her lips curved slightly as she worked. She turned to him, catching his gaze, and raised a brow.
“Do I have smudge on my face, or are you merely pondering some great naval strategy?”
“Neither,” he replied smoothly, though he felt a smile tug at his lips. “I was merely admiring your remarkable ability to make even the simplest of tasks appear graceful.”
Grace laughed softly, the sound warm and infectious. “Is this the flattery for which you earned your sobriquet?”
“Who said anything about flattery?” he countered, his voice dropping slightly. “I’m merely stating facts, Miss Whitford. Would you rather I resort to naval strategy for conversational inspiration?”
She gave him a mock serious look as she began to lay out their meal. “I suppose that would depend. Would it involve roast pork?”
“Not unless the Admiralty has developed an appetite for Cook’s fine culinary skills,” Ronan replied, stepping forward to help. His fingers brushed against hers as he passed her a plate, and for a fleeting moment, the cabin seemed to grow warmer.
Grace met his gaze, but she did not look away. “It would seem that you are determined to be charming today.”
“Charming?” he echoed, his brow lifting. “Now that, I assure you, is not deliberate. I save my charm for disarming mutinous crews.”
“Then I shall consider myself honoured to be subjected to your unintentional efforts.”
“Woe be to you when I use it on purpose.”
Ronan glanced at Grace, noting the shift in her expression. Her brow furrowed and her lips pressed together as though weighing her next words. He braced himself, sensing the direction of her thoughts even before she spoke.
“What of Kilroy?” Her question was careful but insistent. “What will become of him after what he did?”
Ronan’s jaw tightened at the mention of the man’s name. He looked away out of the window where darkness was falling. “He’s in chains,” he said at last, his voice even. “Confined below deck where he can do no more harm.”
Grace nodded, though her expression betrayed no satisfaction. “And once we dock?”
Ronan met her gaze. “He will be dismissed from my service permanently. Men like Kilroy have no place aboard my ship, nor in my trust.”
“But will that be enough?” she pressed, her tone tinged with unease. “He might find his way onto another crew, where he could harm others, or back to you for revenge.”
Ronan sighed in frustration. “It is possible. But I can see to it he’s no longer a danger to my men. Beyond that, justice will find him soon enough.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded, her faith in him evident despite her lingering concerns. “I trust you will do what is right.”
He hoped her faith in him was not misplaced.