God help me , and over everything the
nauseating stench snaking its way in from the rest of the ship —
Something inside
him exploded. With an inhuman howl of rage, he crashed his fist down on the
table, sweeping everything off the tray with one violent slash of his arm. The
stupidly pretty little jam pot, the coffee cup, the little rack of toast, and
yes, even the daffodils, sweet, mocking, sunny when all the world was black —
all went flying. China crashed to the deck, shattering in a thousand pieces.
Coffee ran everywhere, toast went skidding, and the daffodils lay quivering on
the rug, broken, tragic, accusing, before giving a final tremor and falling
still.
Damon put his
elbows on the table and drove his knuckles into his forehead, into the bone,
willing the rage to subside.
Then, as Billy
rushed in and stared in dismay at the carnage, he leaped to his feet, crushed
the flowers beneath his heel, and strode out of the cabin.
~~~~
At the very
moment Lord Morninghall's fist was falling upon his table with the force of a
dropped mortar, the man widely believed to be the Black Wolf was taking his
schooner out of a hidden cove and slipping out to sea.
If ever there
was a fellow who needed a war to keep him out of trouble, Connor Merrick was
that man.
He had come from
a family that thrived in unrest. His father, Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, had
been a legendary privateer during the American War of Independence and now
owned a successful Newburyport shipyard in partnership with Connor's uncle
Matthew Ashton, a hothead if ever there was one. Connor's mother, who now ran
Mira Merrick's School of Fine Seamanship, had been an uncontrollable hoyden
during that same war, garbing herself as a boy and becoming the finest gunner
on the schooner Kestrel . Connor's grandfather Ephraim had been a crusty
shipbuilder of unpredictable temper, and Connor's sister, Maeve, had run away
from home when she was sixteen, spending seven years terrorizing the West
Indies as the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean until a wily British admiral by the
name of Falconer had fallen in love with her and put paid to her nefarious
activities by means of a wedding ring.
What goes around,
comes around. Nearly fifteen years ago, Maeve had stolen Kestrel from
their father, and now Connor, recently escaped from the prison hulk Surrey ,
had stolen Kestrel from Maeve.
On this fine
spring morning he stood at the tiller, watching the southern coast of England
moving away off the larboard beam. He waited until the schooner's sails were
drawing and she was well underway; then, giving the helm to one of his crew, he
leaned against a gun carriage, raised a cup of cold coffee to his lips, and
reread the note from the Reverend Peter Milford, his contact aboard the prison
hulk Surrey . His green eyes scanned the paper; finally he crumpled the
note, tossed it carelessly over his shoulder into the sea, and whistling,
watched his crew as they busily set the topgallants.
His lieutenant,
pretending to be engrossed in coiling a line, observed him from several feet
away. Orla O'Shaughnessy was a petite Irishwoman with dark, windblown hair and
soulful blue eyes, and she had served the Merrick family well. In her youth
she had been Maeve's maid; later, when Maeve ran away and became the pirate queen,
Orla had been the most trusted member of her crew of lady pirates. And now
here she was, swept up into another adventure by yet another Merrick. She knew
both Connor and Maeve well. She also knew that Connor thought of her as
nothing more than a friend, but that did nothing to calm her heart whenever he
was near.
Tall and lanky
like his handsome father, with the same easy smile and natural charm, Connor
was enough to melt any woman's heart. Several months of hell aboard the prison
hulk Surrey had not claimed his winsome grin, and dressed in a billowy,
white shirt open at the throat, his long legs painted with a bit of black
fabric that passed
nauseating stench snaking its way in from the rest of the ship —
Something inside
him exploded. With an inhuman howl of rage, he crashed his fist down on the
table, sweeping everything off the tray with one violent slash of his arm. The
stupidly pretty little jam pot, the coffee cup, the little rack of toast, and
yes, even the daffodils, sweet, mocking, sunny when all the world was black —
all went flying. China crashed to the deck, shattering in a thousand pieces.
Coffee ran everywhere, toast went skidding, and the daffodils lay quivering on
the rug, broken, tragic, accusing, before giving a final tremor and falling
still.
Damon put his
elbows on the table and drove his knuckles into his forehead, into the bone,
willing the rage to subside.
Then, as Billy
rushed in and stared in dismay at the carnage, he leaped to his feet, crushed
the flowers beneath his heel, and strode out of the cabin.
~~~~
At the very
moment Lord Morninghall's fist was falling upon his table with the force of a
dropped mortar, the man widely believed to be the Black Wolf was taking his
schooner out of a hidden cove and slipping out to sea.
If ever there
was a fellow who needed a war to keep him out of trouble, Connor Merrick was
that man.
He had come from
a family that thrived in unrest. His father, Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, had
been a legendary privateer during the American War of Independence and now
owned a successful Newburyport shipyard in partnership with Connor's uncle
Matthew Ashton, a hothead if ever there was one. Connor's mother, who now ran
Mira Merrick's School of Fine Seamanship, had been an uncontrollable hoyden
during that same war, garbing herself as a boy and becoming the finest gunner
on the schooner Kestrel . Connor's grandfather Ephraim had been a crusty
shipbuilder of unpredictable temper, and Connor's sister, Maeve, had run away
from home when she was sixteen, spending seven years terrorizing the West
Indies as the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean until a wily British admiral by the
name of Falconer had fallen in love with her and put paid to her nefarious
activities by means of a wedding ring.
What goes around,
comes around. Nearly fifteen years ago, Maeve had stolen Kestrel from
their father, and now Connor, recently escaped from the prison hulk Surrey ,
had stolen Kestrel from Maeve.
On this fine
spring morning he stood at the tiller, watching the southern coast of England
moving away off the larboard beam. He waited until the schooner's sails were
drawing and she was well underway; then, giving the helm to one of his crew, he
leaned against a gun carriage, raised a cup of cold coffee to his lips, and
reread the note from the Reverend Peter Milford, his contact aboard the prison
hulk Surrey . His green eyes scanned the paper; finally he crumpled the
note, tossed it carelessly over his shoulder into the sea, and whistling,
watched his crew as they busily set the topgallants.
His lieutenant,
pretending to be engrossed in coiling a line, observed him from several feet
away. Orla O'Shaughnessy was a petite Irishwoman with dark, windblown hair and
soulful blue eyes, and she had served the Merrick family well. In her youth
she had been Maeve's maid; later, when Maeve ran away and became the pirate queen,
Orla had been the most trusted member of her crew of lady pirates. And now
here she was, swept up into another adventure by yet another Merrick. She knew
both Connor and Maeve well. She also knew that Connor thought of her as
nothing more than a friend, but that did nothing to calm her heart whenever he
was near.
Tall and lanky
like his handsome father, with the same easy smile and natural charm, Connor
was enough to melt any woman's heart. Several months of hell aboard the prison
hulk Surrey had not claimed his winsome grin, and dressed in a billowy,
white shirt open at the throat, his long legs painted with a bit of black
fabric that passed
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