Lord Of The Sea (19 page)

Chapter 18

“Don’t you two have a honeymoon to be off on?” asked Alannah, who looked up as Connor strode boldly onto Sir Graham’s verandah, his new wife in tow.

“We’re hungry.”

“And soaked. Did you two fall off the boat or something?” She peered at Rhiannon in horror. “What on earth are you
wearing
, Rhiannon?”

“Connor gave me a swimming lesson,” she chirped, and slid a coy, worshipful gaze toward her grinning husband. “It was fun.”

Maeve was sitting in a nearby chair. “Honestly, Connor, why you didn’t rent a room at one of the hotels in Bridgetown is beyond me.” She eyed her brother with disapproval. “You took her to
Kestrel
for your wedding night, didn’t you?”

“It was romantic,” Rhiannon piped up, coming to Connor’s defense. “The beauty of the night beneath the stars, the ship all to ourselves. . . .”

“Bah,” Maeve spat. She got up, her hand going to her belly and rubbing it absently. “He’ll be taking you privateering, next. Damn, how I wish this baby would come. He’s kicking a hole through my blasted gut.”

“Must’ve inherited the Merrick restlessness,” Connor said. “Is there any food around here, Sis?”

“Go pillage the kitchen. But Mother’s baking. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Connor visibly paled. “God help us.”

“Aye, isn’t that the truth.”

“She’s not expecting us to
eat
it, I hope.”

Rhiannon glanced from one sibling to the other. “Why such trepidation?”

Maeve was shaking her head. “We don’t eat Mother’s cooking.”

“Hazardous to one’s health, it is.”

“I should go change, first,” Rhiannon said. “I don’t want to face your mother wearing boy’s clothing and looking like a drowned rat.”

“You’re fine just the way you are,” Maeve said off-handedly.

“And I’m starving,” Connor said. “Let’s go see what’s in the kitchen.”

The smell of something burning grew stronger as they moved toward the back of the house, and by the time they entered the kitchen, a thick haze of smoke was wafting through the open door. Inside, they found Ned hastily fanning the smoke to try and chase it out the windows, and his grandmother at the hearth, struggling to close the great bake oven set into the bricks and cursing like a seasoned pirate while more smoke roiled out and around her.

“Mother,
what
are you doing?” Rushing forward, Connor gently pulled his petite mother out of harm’s way and slammed the iron door shut with a poker. “Honestly, you’re going to burn down the house.”

Grinning happily, she straightened up and passed the back of one hand across her soot-stained forehead. “Ned and I are makin’ molasses cookies.”

“Making them, or burning them?”

“Oh, you mean the smoke? That ain’t from the cookies. We tried to make a tart earlier, and I think I put too much fruit in it. It overflowed and got into the oven and now it’s the spill that’s burnin’.”

“So where’s the tart? I’m starving.”

“On the work table there.”

Connor glanced in the direction his mother indicated. Something unrecognizable sat smoking in a deep pan, with a blackened top that might once have been a pastry crust.

He sighed. “So where are the cookies?”

“Still in the oven.”

“Mother, they’re going to taste like smoke. You have to take them out.”

“Now Connor, don’t you be telling me how to cook. I’ve been doin’ it all my life.”

“Aye, and poisoning people the whole time through,” he said. “Why don’t you and Rhiannon go have a cup of tea and Ned and I will finish up here?”

“I’m trying to be a good grandmother, Connor. Grandmothers make cookies with their grandchildren!”

“You
are
a good grandmother. Isn’t she, Ned?”

The boy, who’d been watching this exchange with uncertainty, nodded. “The
best
!”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Mira said. “I burned my finger on that tray earlier and I’m afraid I taught Ned a new curse word.”

“Oh, no, I already knew that one from my mother,” Ned assured her. “But if you have any other curse words that a good sailor should know, Grandma, I would be in your debt if you would teach them to me. See, Uncle Connor? She’s a wonderful grandmother!”

“And she’s a wonderful mother, too,” Connor added, gently guiding Mira toward the door. “But there’s a time and place for everything and your place, Mother, is not the kitchen. In fact, why don’t you practice being a good mother-
in-law
and go help Rhiannon find some dry clothes? I believe her trunk is still upstairs in her old room.”

“Speaking of that trunk, we should probably have it brought to
Kestrel
,” Rhiannon said.

“No, I think it should stay here.”

“Why?”

“Because when I head off to work, you’ll be staying here, that’s why.”

Rhiannon frowned. “Work?”

Ned piped up. “Uncle Con, are you going privateering?”

“This is a discussion best had at another time,” Connor said, noting his wife’s sudden frown. “Mother?
Please
?”

Rhiannon was still thinking about Connor’s cryptic words when his mother turned to her and for the first time, noticed what she was wearing. But instead of shocked disapproval, the other woman only laughed. “Why, look at you! Are those Toby’s clothes? Do you know, I spent months foolin’ your father-in-law back in the Revolution, dressed as a boy and pretending to be a gunner on his ship. Time of my life, it was.” She turned to her son as he wrapped a heavy cloth around his hand and, choking on smoke, pulled a tray of blackened discs out of the oven. “Connor, I’ll leave you and Ned to finish up here, and Rhiannon and I will see you out on the verandah. Don’t forget the cookies!”

Connor set the tray on the wooden worktable and gazed ruefully down at the ruined treats. “I think, Mother, that you already have.”

*     *     *

Like all large houses belonging to people of means, the Falconer mansion had a sizeable staff. It was a good thing, too, because when Rhiannon, now dressed in a pale rose gown, reappeared on the verandah where Mira, Maeve, and Alannah were already gathered, she noticed that food had been put out—and it wasn’t burned tart or blackened molasses cookies.

There was tea and raisin cakes and papaya laid out in a pretty dish. Banana muffins. And some sort of fruit punch in a large glass pitcher.

Connor, carrying a tray of blackened cookies with young Ned trailing in his wake, joined them a moment later. He set the tray down on a little table near the railing and looked out over the bay, his fingers restlessly tapping a rhythm against the wrought ironwork. “Where is Da? And Sir Graham?”

Maeve was eying the tray with a dubious eye. “Gone to look at the new statue in town of Lord Nelson. Then off to talk ships, I’d imagine.”

“Come here, Ned. We have gulls to feed.”

The boy joined his uncle at the railing while Maeve poured tea for everyone. Rhiannon had just gotten comfortable when there was a small commotion outside the door and the admiral, accompanied by his flag captain, Liam Doherty, and Connor’s father—wearing a black, old-fashioned tricorne hat—came through the door.

“What’s all that smoke?” Captain Lord asked, frowning and looking around in alarm.

Maeve grinned. “Mother’s been baking.”

“Burnin’, more like,” said Liam, pulling out a chair.

“Oh, stow it, would you, Liam? What kind of grandmother would I be if I didn’t bake cookies with my grandchildren?”

“A merciful one.”

“Grandmothers are
supposed
to bake cookies!”

“Aye, bake ‘em, not burn ‘em.” Liam grinned as Mira’s eyes began to flash. “God almighty, ye’d be better off takin’ the lad out fishing. Or sailing. Or teaching him how t’ fire a gun. Anything but the kitchen.”

Mira pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest, and Sir Graham, watching this exchange, wisely intervened by picking up a banana muffin from the blue-and-white plate that sat in the center of the table.

“Well, they look perfectly fine to me,” he said, and took a bite.

“Your cook made the muffins and cakes,” Mira said. “Ned and I made molasses cookies. But I’m afraid you missed them.”

Rhiannon noted Brendan’s swift expression of relief before he caught her eye and smiled. He knew, then, what they were all thinking. And he was silently laughing.

“Not all of them,” Ned said from the railing, where he and his uncle Connor were busily tossing blackened pellets up into the sky; as they did so, there was a sudden melee of sound and several gulls came swooping down, screaming and trying to pluck the bits out of the air.

“He missed,” Ned said, dejectedly, as the burnt bit of molasses cookie fell to the ground below.

“No he didn’t,” Connor whispered, with a sideways glance at his mother. “He just knows better.”

The newcomers seated themselves. Connor came to stand behind Rhiannon’s chair, his fingers resting atop her shoulder and gently stroking it through the thin muslin of her gown. She reached up and touched his hand, resisting the urge to lean her cheek into it.

Behind them, Ned pitched another blackened chunk of molasses cookie into the air.

The gulls screamed and flew away without touching it.

Across the table, Rhiannon saw that her father-in-law’s lips were twitching uncontrollably.

“I see you haven’t gotten rid of that silly hat, Da,” Connor said, leaning over Rhiannon to pluck a piece of fruit from the plate.

Brendan made an expression of mock hurt. “I like my old hat!”

 “
Old
being the definitive word.”

“I think it makes him look quite young and handsome,” Mira put in, with a fond look at her husband.

Brendan laughed, and his amber eyes were warm as his grandson came over and taking the tricorne, put it on his own head. “Is this really the hat you wore during the American War of Independence, Grandpa?”

“Aye, laddie, it sure is. But it looks better on you, I think, than it does on me.”

Rhiannon watched the two, and the love that they had for each other, and felt her heart warm inside. It was good to be part of such a warm and loving family.

“And what do you think, Rhiannon?” Brendan asked. “Too old-fashioned? Or will Ned and I here set a new style?”

“I think we should find another one—” she glanced slyly at her husband, enjoying the good-natured banter— “just for Connor.”

Her husband guffawed, and everyone laughed.

“So what’s going on in town?” Connor asked, plucking a muffin from the dish on the table and biting into it. “Any news worth knowing about?”

Sir Graham leaned back in his chair and let Ned climb up into his lap. “Those pirates who’d set upon the merchantman that Alannah and Rhiannon were on have attacked a Dutch ship,” he said tersely. “Killed the master and most of the crew, and have stolen the ship for themselves.”

“They were a bloodthirsty lot,” Connor said, taking another bite.

“Easier to deal with than the damned French, but they move from island to island and are hard to pin down. And now they’ve armed the damned thing. I suppose I’ll have to send a frigate to subdue them.”

“What sort of ship did they steal?”

“A large brigantine. Nothing a frigate can’t handle but against anything smaller, she’ll be formidable.”

“It’s the second ship they’ve taken this week,” said Captain Lord, helping himself to a raisin cake. “I’d be happy to take
Orion
out and put an end to them, sir.”

“Thank you, Delmore, but I’ll send Captain Ponsonby in the
Athena
,” the admiral said. “She’s a frigate, with better maneuverability and inshore capabilities than a ship of the line.”

“As you wish, Sir Graham.”

Connor finished his muffin, went to the railing and looked out over the bay, his fingers restlessly tapping against the wrought ironwork. “Well,
Kestrel
’s more nimble and maneuverable than either of them, and I’m heading out tomorrow. I’m sure I can make short work of them in my . . . travels.”

“Where are you going?” Sir Graham asked, frowning.

Connor grinned. “Off on my honeymoon cruise.”

“Like hell you are.” Sir Graham reached for a raisin cake. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really planning?”

“Sorry, Admiral, but I don’t report to you.”

Brendan sighed. “Connor, lad, don’t be rude.”

“Rude? Who’s being rude?” Connor said hotly, and Rhiannon saw the hard glitter that had come into his eyes. “I don’t owe explanations to anyone. Where I’m going and what I’m doing is nobody’s business but mine and my crew’s.”

“And
mine
, as long as you’re sheltering in my harbor,” the admiral snapped.

“I won’t
be
sheltering in your harbor after tomorrow. I know enough to leave when my welcome’s worn out.”

“Connor, please—” Brendan said again.

“He knows damned well where I’m going. It’s no secret there’s a convoy gathering in St. Vincent and preparing to make sail for London. Do you want me to say it, Sir Graham? Oh, but wait. You don’t want me privateering in
your
waters. Well, you have your job to do, and I have mine, and it’s time for me to go back to work. Come, Rhiannon. I have no further business here.”

Rhiannon, confused, embarrassed, and uncomfortable, sat unmoving.

“Rhiannon?”

She was aware of everyone’s eyes upon her. “Actually, Connor . . . I would like to stay and have something to eat.” She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes for him to quiet down. “And so, I think, would you.”

In the sudden silence that followed her remark, one could have heard the waves slapping on the beach a half mile away.

Connor simply stared at her. A muscle twitched in the side of his jaw.

“You want to stay here.”

She quietly met his angry green glare. “I would.”

“Very well then,” he said coldly, and turning on his heel, stalked toward the door.

“What an arse,” Maeve muttered, watching her brother go. “Can’t sit still for a damned minute.”

But Rhiannon, torn between loyalty to her husband and trying to smooth things between him and their hosts, felt a sudden desperation. She pushed her chair back. “I must go to him.”