Surrender the Dawn (4 page)

Sheathing his sword, Mr. Heaton collected his pistol from the ground, slid it inside his coat, and slapped his hands together as if this sort of thing happened every day. He started toward Cassandra. Her heart vaulted into her throat. Perhaps she was no safer with him than she had been with the scoundrels who’d assaulted her. He was the town rogue, after all. A drunkard and a ruffian. He halted, towering over her by at least a foot, and she resisted the urge to take a step back. He smelled of wood and rum. Recognition flickered in his eyes and something else—pleasant surprise? “Are you harmed, Miss Channing?”

“No, Mr. Heaton.” She gripped her reticule. “I thank you, sir, for coming to my aid.”

He glanced at the man lying in a heap in the dirt. “I’ve never seen a woman defend herself with a brick.” His lopsided grin sent an odd jolt through her heart.

“It does not always require a man’s strength to defeat a foe.”

“Indeed.” He chuckled. “Then perhaps I should have left you to your own devices. No doubt you could have pummeled them all unconscious.”

Cassandra narrowed her gaze. “Perhaps I could have.”

“Nevertheless, miss, you shouldn’t walk about town at night without benefit of an escort.”

“Lately, there are many things I’m told I should not do.”

He swayed slightly on his feet and the smell of rum once again stung her nose. “Indeed. I suffer from the same malady.”

“I doubt our situations are comparable.” She glanced at the dark frame of a schooner tied at the dock. “How did you come to my rescue so suddenly? I did not see anyone else about.”

“I was working on my ship when I spotted you across the street.”

His ship.
But she’d heard no one would hire him as a captain. “A privateer?”

Mr. Heaton gazed at the vessel bobbing in the harbor and sighed. “Alas, she could be one day.” He gestured toward her reticule. “What is it you have in your reticule that would lure such rats from their holes?”

She eyed him suspiciously, wishing she could see the details of his face more clearly. “Nothing of import.” She gripped it tighter. “I had business at the Merchants Coffee House.” A chill prickled her skin. Surely this man wouldn’t attempt to rob her after he’d defended her so admirably. She took a step back. “I thank you again, Mr. Heaton, but I really must be on my way.”

“Allow me to escort you home.” Closing the distance between them once again, he proffered his elbow. His massive chest spanned her vision even as his body heat cloaked her in warmth. Her breath quickened.

“There is no need.” Turning, she waved him off. “I’m sure there are no more ruffians afoot.”
Except you, perhaps.

Mr. Heaton fell in step beside her. “Nevertheless, I would never forgive myself should any harm come to you, especially carrying such a fortune.”

Shock halted her. “What did you say?”

One dark brow rose. “They wouldn’t accept your money, would they?”

Cassandra flattened her lips.

Mr. Heaton scratched the stubble on his chin. “I was aware of the proceedings at the coffee shop tonight, miss. I would have been there myself looking for investors if I’d thought anyone in town would take a chance on me as captain.” Sorrow weighed his voice.

Cassandra took in this news and allowed it to stir excitement within her. If only for a moment. But no. Even if he would take her money, Mr. Heaton was not a man to be trusted. She clutched her reticule closer and started on her way.

Clearing his throat, he walked beside her. “You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Channing. I am no thief. A gambler, perhaps, even a libertine, but no thief.” He stumbled but quickly leveled his steps.

Cassandra shook her head. How on earth had he managed to wield his sword so skillfully in his condition? She stopped and faced him. “You are drunk, sir.”

“Ah, yes.” He gave her a rakish grin. “How could I forget? Apparently, I’m also a sot.”

Cassandra searched for a glimpse of his eyes in the darkness, but the shadows denied her. How could he joke about such a disgusting habit?

“Wondering how I managed to fend off three men?”

“Two.” She lifted her chin. “I took care of one of them.”

He chuckled and reached up as if to touch the loose strands of her hair.

She began walking again. “Please leave me be, Mr. Heaton. I thank you for your assistance. Good night.”

“You should see my swordplay when I’m sober, miss,” he shouted after her.

“I’d rather not see you at all, Mr. Heaton.”

She heard his footsteps behind her. Turning right onto Howard Street, she quickened her pace. Without the street lights—kept in darkness due to the war—she could barely make out the gravel road. The crunch of her shoes on the pebbles echoed against the brick warehouses on her right. One glance over her shoulder told her that Mr. Heaton still followed her, though he remained at a distance. If his reputation wasn’t so besmirched, she might find his actions quite chivalrous. Instead, suspicion rankled her mind.

Down Eutaw Street, Cassandra halted before her small yard—the shadow of a two-story brick house loomed behind a garden of red roses
and goldenrods. She swung about to say good night and nearly bumped into Mr. Heaton.

“Oh, forgive me, Miss Channing.” Yet he didn’t step back as propriety demanded. Turning, she headed up the stone path to the door.

“If you’re seeking a ship to invest in, Miss Channing, mine is quite available.” His boot steps followed her.

She faced him. “I am seeking a reputable ship, Mr. Heaton. With a reputable captain.” She feigned a smile. The lantern light perched outside her door reflected a devilish gleam in his eyes—blue eyes. She could see them now, mere inches from her own face. Her heart took up a traitorous thump. “Preferably a sober one.”

“I’ve been at sea my whole life. Sober or not, I’ll make a good captain and bring you a fortune in prizes. Ask your friend, Noah.”

“I have,” she said, lifting a brow. “He warned me to stay away from you.”

Mr. Heaton chuckled and tugged on his right earlobe. “He did, did he?” His eyes scoured over her as if assessing her for some nefarious purpose. “Good advice, I’d say.” A sad smile tugged on his lips. “Well then, I bid you good night, Miss Channing.” He bowed slightly and turned to leave.

Slipping inside her door, Cassandra closed and bolted it, then she leaned back against the sturdy wood. No matter if his was the last privateer in the city, she would never align herself with Mr. Luke Heaton.

  CHAPTER 3  

T
he sound of Mr. Heaton’s boots crunching over the gravel as he departed drifted in through the window to Cassandra’s right, while her mind whirled with the events of the evening. A muddle of emotions knotted in her gut: from anger to terror back to anger again and finally settling on an odd feeling that heated her face and tightened her belly—a feeling she could not name.

A jumble of wheat-colored curls flew from the library door, followed by a screech that burned Cassandra’s ears. Darlene barreled down the hallway with Mr. Dayle fast on her heels. Or as fast as the young footman could be with four-year-old Hannah clinging to his leg like a barnacle to the hull of a ship. Dexter, their sheepdog, flopped in after them, barking.

A groan sounded from within the closed parlor to Cassandra’s left.

“Cassie, you’re home!” Darlene shouted, but before Cassandra could wrap her arms around her sister, the child slipped behind her, hiding in the folds of her gown.

Shuffling over the wooden floor like a sailor with a peg leg, Mr. Dayle halted before Cassandra. Dexter sat by his side and stared up at them—though Cassandra couldn’t be entirely sure the dog could see anything through the curtain of fur covering his eyes. His tongue hung from his mouth. Giggles drifted up Cassandra’s back and over her shoulders to bounce off Mr. Dayle’s rather bedraggled, yet comely face. Light from the
chandelier spilled on his blond hair, thick mustache, and fair eyebrows, making him appear to glow. “My apologies for not meeting you at the door, miss, but there appears to be something wrong with my leg.”

“Indeed?” Cassandra forced her brows together. “I hope it isn’t serious.” She gazed down at Hannah, wrapped around his trousers, her thumb in her mouth and a smile flickering across her blue eyes.

“Hmm.” Cassandra leaned over. “Appears to be an anchor of some sort—a red-haired anchor.”

Mr. Dayle glanced down. “Egad, what is this that has grown upon my foot?”

Dexter chomped on a fold of Hannah’s gown and began tugging her away from Mr. Dayle, growling.

Hannah inched her thumb from her mouth just enough to emit a giggle before she thrust it back inside.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Miss Darlene ran off to?” Mr. Dayle brushed dust from his gray coat. “She made quite a mess in the library, and when I insisted she clean it up, she disappeared.”

Cassandra tapped her chin. “Young girl about six years old with light hair and green eyes?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Both girls giggled. Darlene poked her face out from between the folds of Cassandra’s skirt.

Dexter released Hannah’s gown and barked.

Mr. Dayle hunched over like a monster. “Ah, there you are.” Grabbing Darlene, he swung her into his arms, her lacy petticoat fluttering through the air.

Hannah leapt to her feet. “Me too! Me too!”

Cassandra laughed. There were some things worth coming home for.

“Cassandra, is that you?” Her mother’s sharp voice sliced a hole in the happy moment.

And there were some things not worth coming home for.

Mr. Dayle released the girls and set them down on the floor.

“Thank you for being so good to them, Mr. Dayle.” Cassandra drew her sisters close. “I know they can be”—she glanced down and brushed curls from both girls’ foreheads—“rather difficult to handle.”

Dexter forced his way in between the two girls and lifted his paw up on Cassandra’s skirt. She patted him on the head. “And you too, Dexter.”

“My pleasure, miss.” Mr. Dayle bowed slightly then winked at the
girls, eliciting further giggles. “Your mother was not feeling well tonight, and Margaret and Mrs. Northrop were otherwise engaged.”

“And I’m sure you have your own duties—”

Darlene whispered something in her younger sister’s ear, and the two started toward the stairs. Cassandra grabbed Darlene’s arm. “Oh no, you don’t. You both stay here with me.” She faced Mr. Dayle again. “I’m sure you have more than enough to attend to without playing nursemaid to my sisters.” Since Cassandra had been forced to let most of the staff go last month, poor Mr. Dayle held many roles at the Channing home: gardener, footman, butler, steward, and apparently nanny when the occasion called for it. But the tall man in his thirties never once complained.

Mr. Dayle smiled. “I’m happy to help.”

“Cassandra!” Her mother’s voice sounded like a bugle stuffed with a wet rag.

“She’s in the parlor.” Mr. Dayle gave her a sympathetic look before he clutched Dexter’s collar and led the dog down the hallway. “I’ll put him outside, miss.”

Kneeling, Cassandra wrapped her arms around her sisters.

“Cassie, Cassie.” Hannah climbed into Cassandra’s lap while Darlene kissed her on the cheek.

“Come on, girls, let’s go see Mama, shall we?” Cassandra attempted to straighten Darlene’s gown but it remained hopelessly wrinkled. “And your hair, Dar. It’s a tangled mess.”

“I’m sorry, Cassie.” Darlene pouted, but a devilish twinkle shone in her green eyes.

Cassandra ushered the girls down the hall and through wide doors to their left. The smell of tallow mixed with her mother’s jasmine perfume assailed Cassandra as she led her sisters to the floral sofa across from their mother. Cassandra gave them her sternest “stay where you are” look.

“Where have you been, Cassandra?” Sitting like a stiff washboard on her velvet upholstered settee, her mother threw a hand to her chest. “I was so worried, my palpitations returned.”

“Forgive me, Mother.” Cassandra kissed her cheek and took her seat in a chair beside the fireplace. No sooner had she set her reticule down on the table, than Hannah tore from the sofa and crawled up in her lap. Spreading the girl’s gown over her dangling feet, Cassandra embraced her youngest sister, inhaling her scent of lavender soap, fresh biscuits, and a pinch of mischief. Light from numerous candles perched on the tables
and across the mantle set the room aglow, bringing out the rich colors in the mahogany furniture, and the exquisite burgundy and gold tones of the oriental rug that graced the center of the floor.