Prize of My Heart (19 page)

He was first to reach the mainmast and Gideon’s body. The loss of his crewman engulfed him as the
Yankee Heart
’s bow rose on a swell. She rode the wave, then went down by the head. A wind blew across her beam, and as the vessel pitched to starboard, a pillar of frothing green seawater burst over the lee rail.

Brogan braced himself, but the turbulent stream struck with force. It knocked him flat, propelling both his and Gideon’s bodies across the deck. They scudded along and crashed into the bulwarks, where Gideon’s body washed over the rails. In the blink of an eye, a man was lost. The sea had buried a friend and shipmate.

Grabbing on to the first rope he could find, Brogan prayed it was secure and held fast as the surge flowed over him.

The rush of sea crushed his chest, so dense it immersed him in its watery depths. Like a drowning man his lungs burned, and as he felt himself grow faint, he thought of Drew and Lorena.
You may have taken my man, but you won’t have me! I won’t let you have me! Not until I’ve secured their safety and the lives of every other man on this ship. Not until my son knows his father!

Brogan tightened his grip, but the hemp inched through his fingers, taking with it little bits of flesh. His hands burned as though on fire, yet he continued to bear down on the slimy, wet halyard. He felt his blood on its roughened fibers.

As the last of the deluge flushed away and the ship righted, the
Yankee Heart
shook herself free. Brogan hoisted himself to his feet and took a deep, fortifying breath, no sooner releasing it when a cry of “Man overboard!” sounded.

The two hands from the watch rushed to the weather side and leaned over the rail, where another of their fellows had fallen. Shock hit Brogan like a physical blow to his body. His heart crushed under a heavy weight of grief.
Who? Who’s fallen?
And who now remained alone in the rigging? He bounded to the mainmast, searching aloft through the blur of driving rain, but the mainsail thrashed over the yard, obscuring his view.

He searched helplessly up into the swirling blue-black heavens. A rescue launch would be overturned within moments in this running sea, if not dashed to splinters. Yet Brogan would row out himself before surrendering another of his men to the deep.

He was fighting his best to save the ship, his men, and the loved ones below, but now it felt as though control was slipping away from him.

In desperation he realized he couldn’t do this all on his own and cried out to the Almighty.

“Their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end.

“Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses.”

The psalm he had read to Drew on Lorena’s first night aboard echoed through his consciousness, and Brogan turned with renewed hope to the sailors at the rail.

They sadly shook their heads.

Gone.

Injustice and disappointment festered inside him, a tempest as angry as the one that raged against the
Yankee Heart
. Brogan yanked off his Hessians and leapt into the rigging, climbing up the ratlines to reduce sail before any more lives were lost.

Against howling winds, flapping sails, and sharp rain, he scaled the heights of the mainmast and spotted John Bowne further aloft, balancing on the yardarm of the lower main topsail.

William, then. Willie Farragut . . .
dead
! Brogan plummeted into a dark abyss of despair. Willie, who from that first day that he’d come under Brogan’s command never failed to give the vessel his best efforts. Who at the age of sixteen, being a bright lad, however green, had petitioned Brogan to sign articles with the privateer
Black Eagle
. Brogan promised himself he’d look out for the Farragut lads, and he thought he’d succeeded.

Until today.

How was he going to tell Warrick his brother was dead?

Before he could conceive of an answer, he climbed past the main yard and scaled the maintop, where to his great amazement he found something stretched across the platform.

Someone, rather.

It was the prone figure of William.

Brogan blinked, astonished. His prayer had been answered, and suddenly he understood. The Lord had shown him who was in control. Not Brogan, but
Him
.

He was humbled as he gave the second mate’s shoulder a good shake. “Mr. Farragut! Are you well? Wake up, man, and explain. We thought you gone.”

William shrugged off his stupor and climbed to all fours. “I was knocked from the yard and thought for certain I was done, but the next I knew, I landed here.”

“Nothing broken?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, on deck with you. Lively now, and send up Mr. Partridge and Mr. Beckett to haul in this mainsail. Mr. Bowne and I will reef the topsails.” Brogan was not about to risk another fright from William before delivering him safely to his brother.

William jumped to the order, the horror and embarrassment on his face clear indication he believed his captain was displeased with him, when in reality Brogan felt such joy he wanted to shout praises to the Almighty from the crosstrees.

He’d been certain he had lost another of his valued crew, but God had been merciful. The realization sobered him, and right there, balancing on the main yard, eighty feet above a violently swaying deck, Brogan counted his blessings.

The squall quieted to a calm wind and showers by late afternoon, when Brogan stepped out of the weather for the first time since he’d escorted Lorena to her cabin the previous evening. Exhaustion weighed on every muscle as he trekked the dark corridor to the great cabin.

He opened the door and entered the parlor, leaving concern for crew and ship out in the rain.

One glance at the precious child seated between Lorena and Warrick on the settee and everything else ceased to exist. He stood on the Brussels carpet, dripping wet, while Drew stared back with astute blue eyes, wise beyond their years.

The boy scooted off the settee and rushed forward into his arms.

As he held his son, Brogan thought then that Jabez had been wise in his opinions. Five years old was too young for a life at sea. Drew needed more. Even his father needed more.

He met Lorena’s gaze over the boy’s pale blond head as she stepped forward in a gingham work dress with Warrick, her jumbled mass of tight ringlets loosed from their pins to overwhelm her slender face.

Brogan stared, entranced by her beauty, yearning to say all the things that remained unspoken between them.

She smiled sweetly, and he realized that with this voyage, his heart had expanded to include someone besides his son. Someone just as precious and just as loved, though in a different way.

He wanted to marry Lorena. He never expected he would feel this way, but Brogan wanted to settle down in quiet little Duxborotown with a wife and his son . . . if Lorena would have him, if she’d forgive him, once she learned the truth of his identity.

With a grin Brogan crooked a finger beneath Drew’s chin and gave it a nudge. “Have you missed me?”

The boy’s head bobbed in a vigorous nod.

“And I missed you,” Brogan said, rising. “Both of you.” He turned from Lorena to his steward Warrick and, reaching out, gave the young man’s shoulder an affectionate pat. “Go to your brother in the fo’c’sle and be with him. William has an amazing tale to share of God’s goodness.”

Drew peered up at Brogan, craning his neck. “I want to hear, too.”

“And you shall. At dinner. Fred Mott is starting up the galley fires, and soon I promise you something hot to eat. But first there is another story I need to tell.” His faith had been stirred with William’s sparing, and this time Brogan felt armed with courage for what he knew he must do. “I’m going to change from these wet clothes,” he said, lifting his gaze to Lorena, “and then I have a confession to make.”

B
rogan’s sentimental mood had Lorena baffled. What happened out in the storm to open his eyes to God’s goodness? What amazing tale did William have to share? She felt as anxious as Drew for news, but was she prepared for Brogan’s confession? She’d encouraged him to open up, and now that she’d soon have her desire, Lorena fretted his revelation would alter the tender, developing relationship between them.

With the release of a latch, the mahogany door to the sleeping cabin opened and Brogan emerged in a fresh pair of buff trousers and the blue military cutaway coat of his privateer uniform. She found the formality odd until she remembered the coat was part of the puzzle. His damp, longish hair he’d neatly combed, and the stark look accentuated Brogan’s rugged features. She noted shadows beneath his eyes, and when he smiled it did little to ease the severity of his expression.

His attention went directly to the boy. “Drew, fetch Captain Briggs for me, would you, and bring him here?”

Drew dashed off as though in anticipation of some sort of game.

Lorena knew this was no game, and her heart raced because of it.

“I’ll open wide the draperies and let in some light, shall I?” Suddenly she remembered the deadlights protecting the rain-splattered panes of the stern windows. At her hesitation Brogan stepped up behind her to draw aside the curtains and unlatch the shutters. As he folded them out of the way, soft gray light filtered down from the cloudy skies into the cabin, as solemn as the expression on his face.

Lorena studied him. “I’ve not seen fear in your eyes before. Yet you wait here for Drew as though he were returning with some powerful adversary and not a cloth doll. Whatever you have to tell us, Brogan, I know it does not come easy for you.”

As he took her hands, she felt the ragged sores crossing his palms. “You’ve been injured.” She examined his hands, wincing at the torn, raw flesh. “I should dress those wounds and perhaps apply a salve—”

“Later,” he said impatiently, jerking out of her grasp.

He took a breath, then started again, staring her full in the face with a wry grin. “I know you are confused, but in a moment all shall be explained. Forgive me for not speaking up sooner. You have to understand, I have been waiting three years for this moment, hoping the opportunity would arrive, rehearsing what I should say over and over again. And still, I feel . . . unprepared.”

The robust, masculine timbre of his voice thickened with each word, and there, in the midst of that dear, beloved face, Lorena saw his intense blue eyes fill from beneath his lashes. She ran her gaze over his crisp lapels with their red facings and the column of shiny brass buttons. Identical to the coat Captain Briggs wore in miniature.

Drew returned, and Brogan bid them sit together on the settee while he stood before them holding Drew’s doll.

“Do you remember the tale I told that day of our picnic on Captain’s Hill? I told of how Captain Briggs came to be crafted.”

“Yes, of course.” Lorena remembered the tale well for its curious nature, but it was Drew whom Brogan addressed.

“Sailmaker Thomas Pinney, being crafty with a needle, was asked to sew a doll in the likeness of a privateer captain. This is the doll he made,” he explained again. “Captain Briggs. The doll your papa gave you. Do you . . . remember?”

Drew’s eyes rounded at the mention of his papa. “When I was still a babe,” he said in a soft voice, “I had a papa.”

Satisfied, Brogan smiled and included Lorena with his gaze before continuing. “When I learned I was to be promoted to captain, I commissioned Thomas to stitch me a military coat. Thomas’s father had been a tailor, you see, and he trained his son well in his profession. But when the old man died, Thomas decided he would rather go to sea and fight for his country than pursue a clothier’s trade. So he signed on as a sailmaker for the
Wild Pilgrim
.” Brogan opened his arms. “And this is the coat Thomas made.”

As he paused, Lorena caught a shimmer in his eyes. She didn’t understand. What was he implying?

“When I saw the fine job Thomas had made of my coat,” he continued, “I commissioned him to make a doll in my likeness as a gift to my young son, so he’d not forget me while I was away on the
Black Eagle
. I told my son that whenever he felt lonely, he was to hold Captain Briggs and remember how much his papa loved him, and to know that nothing would stop his papa from coming back for him.”

Brogan stared intently at Drew, tears in his eyes, while Drew gaped back in fascination.

“My son’s name was Benjamin,” he said.

Lorena gasped as realization struck.

“My papa died at sea,” Drew said.

“Lorena and your papa Huntley surely believed I had died, for I sailed into battle. It was a dangerous war and many men did die. But not I. I’ve been searching for you these three years we’ve been apart. The reason I’ve waited until now to tell you who I am was because I wanted to let you get to know me first.”

Lorena didn’t know why she didn’t say anything, other than the fact she was dumbfounded . . . and as entranced by the story as was Drew. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting Brogan to reveal, but never this.

“I love you, Ben,” Brogan told the boy. “I made you a promise that no matter how long or whatever it took, I would return. I left you Captain Briggs as a symbol of that promise, and when I saw that you carried him still”—Brogan touched a finger to the child’s heart—“I knew some small part of you had to remember. Else why would you still cling to this doll after all these years and after you were told I was gone?”

A grin spread across the boy’s face as if suddenly it all made sense. “Papa?”

“Aye, son.”

As the child went voluntarily into his arms, Brogan softly cried. Drew clutched the man tightly, afraid to let go.

Lorena slipped into a state of numbed shock. And really, what protest could she voice, watching Drew’s joy at being reunited with the papa he’d never forgotten, the man they’d thought long dead?

He had not perished in battle as they’d been led to believe, but had survived the war. Uncle Stephen had lied.

And now to be confronted with her family’s secret, to hear Brogan confess to being baby Benjamin’s father . . . it weighted her heart with heaviness knowing the circumstances, learning her captain had once been married to that Boston twice-widowed woman . . . no, not a widow for a second time, as Lorena now knew, but Mrs. Abigail Talvis. They’d never learned her married name. Papa had agreed to collect the babe and depart—no questions asked, no names given, no pleasantries exchanged.

Lorena swallowed a lump in her throat. That Brogan loved the child and had pursued the boy despite the great injustice done him was more than her mind could grasp.

For years now, she and her father had been sheltering Drew from his past so that he might have a new future, never suspecting that all along there’d been someone out there working just as diligently to restore Drew to his origins.

Lorena supposed she should feel outrage at Brogan for keeping his identity hidden, but knowing what she did of matters, this revelation shed an even brighter light on the goodness of his heart, and her love for him increased tenfold. His melancholy looks and fatherly concern now made perfect sense.

He was quite the unusual man, this Captain Brogan Talvis. Truly remarkable.

She lifted her gaze to his and saw all he’d suffered in his eyes. He was churning with questions for her, questions that, for the moment, would have to remain unanswered. They could not speak in front of Drew. But what about when Brogan got her alone?

What would she tell him then?

Lorena wondered as much all through dinner and the tale of William’s near brush with death. When Drew could no longer keep his eyes open after such an exciting day, Brogan carried him off to bed. She watched from the doorway as he tucked the coverlet around the boy, then Captain Briggs in beside him with a poignancy that made it easy to imagine his doing so countless times before. He brushed the curls off Drew’s forehead and kissed him good-night.

Brogan lingered a moment longer. When she saw him straighten, Lorena backed away from the doorway to allow him entrance into the great cabin. He closed Drew’s door softly behind him.

Brogan was frank with her. He shared his earliest memories of the orphan asylum and his first days at sea. He told of lean times before the war, when he and Jabez and countless other unemployed sailors crowded the docks of Boston Harbor. The despair, the hunger, the boredom, until one day he caught the eye of a wealthy widow, several years older than himself.

Within weeks they were married in a civil service by a justice of the peace. Brogan found positions for himself and Jabez with the
Wild Pilgrim
and left his bride for a four-month term aboard the privateer. When he returned he learned she was with child.

Good fortune had found him at last, he believed. He was young and naive in that, until then, he’d spent his life at sea far from female society. He fancied himself in love. Or perhaps he only imagined he loved Abigail for the son she gave him.

“Abigail was not the most attentive of mothers, but I was more than willing to make up the difference so that Benjamin never felt unloved or neglected. We were the closest to a family I’d ever known, but two years after his birth, on the eve of my departure to take command of the
Black Eagle
, she informed me she had sent him away. She refused to reveal where.”

“She presented herself as a widow,” Lorena explained in her own defense.

“And yet my existence does not come as a shock to you. You understand who I am? You believe me?”

Lorena gazed at his proud, earnest expression with eyes of compassion. “I believe you. I’m sorry for all you’ve suffered, but to our minds you were a nameless casualty of the war.”

A worried crease appeared between his brows. “Who told you I was a casualty?”

“My . . . my uncle Stephen.”

“Stephen Huntley? The man suspected of fleeing from the fire that took Abigail? Then the rumors were true? Stephen was there the night Abigail died? They were acquainted?” Turning from her, Brogan began to pace anxiously. “More than acquainted, I’m beginning to suspect. It seems while I was at sea, she sought the attentions of a rich companion. A benefactor. Could that be why my promotion meant nothing to her? It does make perfect sense. She hoped to rid herself of her husband, and our son stood in her way. Is this true? Am I correct?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Lorena acknowledged, hoping to put an end to his torturous, racing thoughts. “She wanted Ben to disappear. They both did. As far as my father and I understood, Ben had no one. No one who cared for him. We gave him a loving home when we thought he had none.”

“And changed his name.”

“To shield him from his past. To raise him as one of our own. As a Huntley.”

“Your uncle’s family refused to see me. Their attorney warned me away with the assurance that none of them had any knowledge of an Abigail Talvis or her child.”

“They spoke the truth. They never knew anything of my uncle’s association with your wife,” she told him.

“In all my inquiries, it was as though Benjamin never existed. Duxboro was my last hope . . . a hope that I might learn something, anything, some small bit of history about Stephen Huntley that could produce a lead. I came for information. Instead, I discovered my son. Not in hiding but living for all the world to see as Drew Huntley.”

Lorena swallowed uncomfortably. “You must have suffered quite the shock.”

Irony rumbled through Brogan’s laugh. “Obviously he’d been well cared for, but all I could think of was getting him back. All the charity in the world cannot replace the bond of blood. One’s own family. And so I devised a plan. I commissioned a ship, biding my time until she was complete, when I could sail away in her . . . with my son.”

Lorena found herself at a loss while she absorbed this knowledge. Brogan had planned to steal Drew out of Duxboro. In the very ship her father had so painstakingly built him. All this happening while George had been purchasing vomit powder for the purpose of entrapping her. If Brogan had followed through with his scheme, Papa would have lost both his children.

She felt a jumble of turmoil, caught between fear of what might have been and relief it hadn’t. “But you didn’t leave with Drew,” she reminded herself aloud. He had come to her rescue instead.

“The boy loves you like the mother he never truly had. I could no sooner take that from him than I could bear the thought of you in danger.”

Lorena breathed slowly, forcing her emotions to calm and her thoughts to clear. “And now?” she asked expectantly. “What now, Brogan?”

He searched her face with china blue eyes full of earnest. “Can you forgive me? I thought I had no alternative but to abduct Ben. Your father never would have given him up. Not to me, a stranger. Nor to anyone. Jabez tried to reason with me, but it was you, Lorena, who opened my eyes. I always had another choice, yet I deliberately ignored the right one. A choice for the good of all concerned, not just for myself. Because no matter where or with whom Ben lives, I shall always be his father. I shall be a part of his life, and he will know a father’s love. But what I still don’t understand is, why? Why did another man’s child matter so much to your father? Why Benjamin?”

When she made no immediate reply—for indeed, Lorena hesitated to make any sudden revelations—he studied her with a hard, contemplative stare.

“It’s my belief there was more behind your father’s charity than good Christian kindness,” he said. “I don’t know what, but something else transpired between the Huntley brothers and Abigail. For why else would a man of your father’s strong moral character help his brother carry on an affair with a married woman? And while Stephen was married with a family of his own? What influence did Abigail have over them that both brothers should act so extensively on her behalf and in her favor? Your father knows the answer. And perhaps even you, Lorena.”

As much as she’d like to unburden the ugly truth, Lorena could not bring herself to utter the words. Brogan was destined to find out eventually, but with his renewed faith she yearned to shield him with the same care she’d been protecting Drew, or Ben, these last three years.