The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines) Read online

  The Captain untied his shirt from the bedpost and led me shivering to the copper tub like a slave, my wrists still bound. The idea excited me, and I stood inside the cold metal staring up at him. He poured a little water from his pitcher, and it pooled around my toes. Grabbing a sponge and a bar of soap, he commenced to scrub every inch of me, wetting me first and lathering up my flesh until he covered me in a shroud of white bubbles. I gasped as he rinsed me, the water cold and trickling down my skin in soapy rivulets. When he finished, he wrapped me in a warm towel and provided me with some new, freshly laundered clothes and a roll of gauze.

  “They are castoffs, but they are clean at least.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I murmured, folding the clothes in my arms.

  I made to put them on, but Grant grabbed my hand. “Will you remain in my chambers tonight?”

  I averted my gaze, the heat from his eyes inflaming me again. “Sir, you know it wouldn’t be prudent.”

  He stepped toward me, caging me in with his arms. “I want you close to me, Mary.”

  I rested my head on his chest, allowing his warmth to consume me. For a moment, I let his strength penetrate my heart, tasting the sweet medicine of his love, his desire. I thought of the letter Jacob had burned and Johnny’s handsome, but vapid, face. I could leave that all behind to stay with Grant, travel the world with him, please him, take his body. But that would have meant walking away from Dunraven, and I couldn’t do it.

  I stood on tiptoe and buried my face in his neck, breathing him in again before planting a tender kiss on his throat. Ducking out of his arms, I bowed, mumbling about needing sleep. With a disappointed glance, he turned away from me, propping himself up on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands.

  I lay in the pantry until sunrise, watching the sun cast orange frames on the wall. The events of the night before jumbled in my head—the violence of Andrews’s attack, the adoration in Grant’s eyes. In spite of my exhausted limbs and heavy eyes, sleep refused to come, and I arose early to begin my daily duties.

  As I laid out the breakfast items, a sharp pounding on the door echoed in the room. Hands trembling, I opened it a crack and recognized one of the younger Lieutenants hopping nervously from foot to foot on the other side.

  “I need to see the Captain at once,” he demanded, shouldering past me.

  “He has not yet risen!” I called after him.

  The young man rapped his knuckles on the door, and it opened. Grant stood there fully dressed, staring down at the Lieutenant.

  “Sir, I am sorry to disturb you, but we have a situation.”

  “Go on, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s Andrews, sir. He did not show up for watch this morning, and no one can find him.”

  Blood pounded in my ears, but I forced myself to keep my breath steady as Grant looked over the young Lieutenant’s shoulder and stared right at me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The entire crew stood on the deck, rows and rows of sailors standing tall and straight in their blue uniforms. A grey sky stretched high above us, pale and still, the wind rippling through our hair and snapping the sails. The air had turned cool, the sea a dark, foreboding, bottle green lined with filmy white on the edges of the choppy waves.

  Grant paced, periodically meeting the gaze of a random sailor before moving on, the sound of his large black boots thudding hard with each step. The men followed him with their eyes, their backs straight, hands steady at their sides. No one knew Grant’s real story—I could tell that much from hanging around the gun deck. Still, they admired him because he wasn’t like the other officers. Second and third sons of fading gentry. No, Grant was a man just like them, and his voice soared over the gusting wind, resonating in my soul and hollowing me out.

  “If anyone knows anything… If you have seen anything, you must step forward. The efficacy of a ship’s crew is dependent on the goodwill and forthrightness of its sailors. It is your duty to speak to me of any clues to the whereabouts of Lieutenant Andrews.”

  He stopped and turned suddenly, his eyes meeting mine for a second before he looked over the mass of men before him. “We will continue our search, but in the meantime, keep your ears and eyes open for any sign of the Lieutenant so we may bring him home safely. Now back to work.”

  “Aye, Captain!” the crew shouted.

  “Dismissed,” he said.

  The deck resumed in a flurry of activity, and I made to report to the quartermaster when a firm hand fell on my shoulder.

  “O’Brien,” a gruff voice said behind me. I turned and McGregor stood before me, the breeze catching his floppy hair and brushing it away from his forehead.

  “The Captain wants ye to spend some time in the surgery with me today,” he said. “We’ll need to train ye before we reach the West Indies.”

  “Of course,” I mumbled, following McGregor below deck.

  Injury was common aboard the ship. Sailors fell, fights broke out, limbs were broken. There was dysentery and other ills. But today the surgery stood still and empty, crisp white sheets stretched across the few beds the ship could afford.

  “So do ye have some history mending bodies?” McGregor asked, his warm eyes putting me at ease after the Captain’s stern directive above. My mind raced, wondering if I had been seen, if someone had heard something, but I tried to focus on McGregor’s rugged face as he tidied up his already meticulous surgical materials. My mother would have been so proud.

  “My ma was a bit of a healer, you could say, sir,” I said. “I know basic things like setting broken bones, stitching people up.”

  McGregor’s face brightened. “Is that right? Delightful! We need able hands in the surgery after a battle.”

  “Of course, sir.” I nodded. “I do whatever the Captain orders.”

  McGregor smiled. “Certainly. He is a very commandeering sort of person.”

  “But trustworthy,” I piped up.

  “Aye. There is no one in this world I would trust more.” McGregor looked away, out the small narrow window in the surgery. A light rain made darted patterns across the pane. “Let’s get started then.”

  McGregor showed me where he kept supplies and walked me through a few basic procedures. When he finished, he motioned me over to his desk, and I sat across from him on a simple wooden stool. He opened a drawer and brought out something small and orange, the size of a ball.

  “Would you like some? It’s an orange.”

  “I’ve never had one, sir.”

  McGregor smiled. “Yer in for a real treat.” He peeled it, juices running down his nimble surgical hands. He broke the tender flesh of the fruit in half and placed it in my palm.

  “Go on,” he said. “Taste it.”

  Tentatively, I broke off a small piece and slipped it into my mouth. Sunshine and sweetness rolled over my tongue, and I let out a small moan of pleasure as the bright tasting liquid dripped down my throat. “It’s good.” I chuckled, wiping my moist lips with the back of my hand.

  McGregor laughed, biting into his half. “So, how does yer mother approve of ye taking up the sailor’s life?”

  “I don’t know, sir. My mother is dead.”

  McGregor’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. ’Twas rude of me.”

  “No, no.” I waved him off. “How would you know it?”

  The surgeon nodded, swallowing another piece of his orange. “How did she die?”

  “Oh. Well.” The fruit turned to ash in my mouth, and I repressed the old familiar wave of rage welling up inside me. “She died in the rising.”

  “A tragedy, O’Brien,” McGregor whispered.

  “Ma was quite a revolutionary, and Da said she had a hard time keeping her mouth shut. I suppose we had that much in common.” I laughed beneath my breath, turning to meet the surgeon’s sympathetic gaze. “It was a retaliation killing. An eye for an eye, I suppose.” I never talked about my mother, but the sound of her screams as those terrible men dragged her away still haunted me. Jamming the last bit of fruit int
o my mouth, I sat there chewing and staring at my hands, thinking of how I hid beneath the stairs, powerless.

  Over the years, I would learn the truth, how a marauding band of Orange Boys heard rumors of my ma’s spying and made an example of her. I never knew for sure what “made an example of” truly meant, but she must have endured unspeakable violence at their hands. Lord Brighton openly condemned their brutality, but nothing ever came of it after the rising. No arrests. No retribution. Da threw himself into taking care of Dunraven as steward, and he never spoke of the events of 1798 again. Perhaps he worked so hard for Lord Brighton in order to keep me safe, so that by proving his loyalty he could appear the ever-steadfast servant and evade closer scrutiny. But his backbreaking labor only made me all that more desperate to bring the estate back into the O’Malley family.

  I glanced up, shaking my head and rubbing my sticky hands across my trousers. “Rebellions are a messy business, Mr. McGregor. As a Scotsman, you should know that.”

  McGregor’s face reddened, and he lifted his palms. “I didn’t mean to pry. That is—”

  My face grew hot, and I nodded, rising to leave. “I think I’m needed in—”

  The door burst open and five sweaty sailors tromped in, carrying in their arms a bloated, human corpse.

  “We found Andrews, sir!” one of them cried.

  “What’s left of him,” another muttered.

  My blood ran cold, and I stood rooted to the spot, my heart thundering against my rib cage.

  They threw the body onto one of the cots, bilge water dripping all over the floor of the surgery and through the crisp white sheets, staining them a nasty brownish-grey. His face had expanded in size, blue and veiny, and it looked as if it could pop like a soap bubble just to touch it. Rigor mortis had set in, and he lay there like a swollen, oversize doll, his limbs sticking out on all sides, spilling over the cot. Something had attacked Andrews’s eyes, his brown irises scraped away to a milky blue consistency. Bile rose in my throat, and I clamped a hand against my mouth, swallowing down the acid churning in my stomach. Sure enough, a deep red gash opened up Andrews’s neck, revealing to anyone with two wits to rub together that Andrews hadn’t just taken a drunken tumble into the bilge.

  “Get the Captain,” McGregor whispered. His usually jovial mien turned serious, and he shook his head. Rolling up his sleeves, he turned toward his cabinet to retrieve his surgical supplies.

  The young sailors stood there in awe of the corpse, and a crowd had gathered by the door.

  “Now!” McGregor bellowed so loud I jumped.

  The sailors scrambled out of the surgery. I made to follow, but McGregor caught me.

  “Can you stay, O’Brien? I’ll need an assistant for the autopsy.”

  “Autopsy?” I said, the timbre in my voice creeping up with nervousness. It was a word I didn’t know.

  “The Admiral will need a full report, and by the looks of things”—McGregor gave a furtive glance toward Andrews’s body—“this does na appear to be an accident.”

  Grant leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. “We cannot tell this to the crew. It will only start a panic.”

  McGregor nodded. “Yes, sir, but with all due respect, there is a murderer aboard this ship. The Admiral will want to see justice.”

  “Justice?” the Captain said darkly. “Everyone knows Andrews was a bastard and a drunk. Best case scenario, he cheated on cards and one of the sailors took him out. Worst case scenario, that gash came from a rat after stumbling face first into the bilge in some drunken stupor. Either way, do you want me to put that down on an official report? Perhaps I should write that in a letter to his father?”

  McGregor blanched and covered Andrews’s face with a sheet. He stepped back and nodded. “You are right, Captain. Of course.”

  “I will take care of the Admiral. I shall tell his family he died valiantly in battle.”

  McGregor nodded. “And what about the sailors who carried up the body?”

  Grant stared hard at Andrews’s shrouded body. “They’ll talk, but everyone knows what sort Andrews was. As I said, in the end, the official word will be he died a hero.” The Captain started for the door. “Prepare him for a sea burial. O’Brien, I need you in my chambers.”

  My stomach bottomed out, and I gave McGregor a quick bow before jogging after Grant, his long gait propelling him through the dark reaches of the ship and up to his quarters. My heart pounded as I followed him, my hands shaking in my pockets. The crew bustled around us, but I swore I heard my name muttered by a group of sailors as we passed through the gun deck. When I turned toward the sound, they averted their eyes.

  The Captain opened his cabin door, and I raced to slide in behind him before it slammed in my face. When it clicked shut, Grant grabbed me with such force, I gasped, my toes barely tracing the floor as he dragged me into his sleeping chambers, kicking the door shut behind him.

  He pushed me against the wall. “What. Have. You. Done.”

  His eyes burned through me, and fear like I had never known iced my blood, tightening my throat.

  “Answer me.” He gave my shoulders a slight shake, and I shrank away. He forced my head back, locking my gaze.

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” I managed to say, the words tumbling over each other. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Do not lie to me, Mary.” His voice sank low and dark, reverberating deep in my chest. “Tell me what happened with Andrews.”

  I shook my head. “No, sir.”

  “No?” His eyes widened, and then he blinked slowly, a horrible frown distorting his face.

  I curled my hands into tight fists at my side, standing my ground. It was bad enough the Captain had covered up what happened to Andrews, but if I had told him what I had done and why, he would become my accomplice, too. Not only that, he would never forgive me for copying those maps, and the thought of his fury, the inevitable sense of betrayal after what he did for me, cut me to the core. I couldn’t bear it. Better for both of us that he remained in the dark.

  He shook his head, his face flushed with rage. Leaning in, he spoke close to my ear, his breath hot and damp. “I do not think you understand the precariousness of your position. You are still under my command. You are still a member of the English Royal Navy.”

  “I know, sir.”

  He released me, taking off his hat and coat. “Stand right there.” He pointed to a spot on the floor.

  Shaking, terrified, I could do nothing but comply.

  He left the room, and when he returned, he carried a long, thin rope in his arms.

  “Sir?”

  “Tell me what happened last night. Tell me the truth.”

  “Or what?” I returned his fiery gaze with a blank one.

  “The truth, Mary.”

  “Is this one of your games, Captain Grant?”

  He twisted the rope taut between his hands. “Would you like it to be?”

  I wasn’t sure what I wanted in that moment, my insides still knotted by the events from last night. Andrews was a bastard, and he deserved to die. Still, I had never killed anyone before even though I had dreamed of it often enough after my mother died. Grant’s promise of violence spoke to some strange need inside me, a desire to return to my body. To bring order to the chaos in my mind. Of course it was wrong. All of it. I should have darted for the door and hidden deep in the hold until we arrived in Jamaica, but small sparks of anticipation tore through my limbs as I glanced at his knuckles, the tendons in his neck strained and bursting with power and strength. I wanted to push him, see how far he would go to dominate my mind and body in order to find the truth. And while I might submit to the rope trailing across the floor, I knew he would be the one to break.

  Because O’Malleys don’t break. They burn.

  After a long, tense moment, I raised my chin in challenge and held out my wrists. “Go on, then.”

  His eyes never left mine as he twisted the rope over and over against my skin, h
is fingers working intuitively to create intricate knots. When he finished, he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it around my eyes, leaving me standing in pitch darkness. His lips brushed my neck, and I shivered.

  “Mary,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Tell me.”

  “I can’t, sir,” I whispered.

  “Very well.”

  He threw the rope over a beam on the ceiling and pulled. My arms strained from their sockets, my toes dancing on the floor. I let out an involuntary whimper and squeezed my eyes shut as if to block out the ache in my arms. Grant’s breath brushed against my chest, and he stuffed a piece of cloth between my lips and tied a kerchief around my head to keep it in place. Even if I grew desperate and tried to scream, no one would hear me now.

  “I need to go attend to McGregor and my dead Lieutenant,” he said in a low voice. “I will return. I hope by then you are prepared to tell me everything.”

  His loud boots tromped out of the room, and the door slammed shut. I heard a key turn in the lock, and then silence.

  I pulled hard on the ropes, trying to gain traction with my wrists, but they held fast. The tips of my toes brushed the floor, teasing me almost, giving me just enough purchase to torture my limbs. Minutes passed. Hours? Perhaps just a few seconds. Who could know? After struggling and pulling at the ropes, my body finally gave up and I hung limp in the air. I longed to spit out the cloth between my teeth, the back of my throat scratchy and tight. I would have done anything for a drop of water, and in spite of the churning fear in my stomach, my empty belly gurgled in the stillness of Grant’s chambers. Summoning my strength, I tried to swing myself over to where I imagined the bed would be. On my last try, my toes brushed against the frame, but then slipped off, the movement nearly yanking my arm out of my socket. I howled in my gag, tears soaking through my blindfold.