Page 17 of Only By Grace
O’Brien shrugged.
“Very well. Call for all hands on deck. They shall be idle no longer.”
A shrill whistle followed this order, which subsequently produced a loud stomping and herding noise akin to stampeding cattle, though they only numbered near twenty. Soon, his crew was lined up, standing at attention as best they could through the pouring rain, looking at him like he was about to send them to their deaths in Davy Jones’ locker.
“I will send them to their sleep too exhausted to think about any silly superstitions,” he muttered before telling O’Brien to put them to work. “I want them swabbing the deck, pumping the bilges, working the rigging. Mending sails is too docile a job.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” O’Brien turned and began ordering the men to their duties.
As for himself, Ronan climbed the rigging, not asking anything of his men he would not do himself. He needed to work so hard that he could think of nothing but the sheer pain of his muscles straining while he struggled to maintain his grip in the rain. He was just finishing a repair when the men stopped singing—if one were being generous enough to call vulgar sea shanties singing—and he looked down with a frown to see what was the matter.
He saw the looks of his men’s faces before he saw the cause. His oldest crewman was scowling fiercely and Ronan followed his gaze. There stood Grace Whitford in her boy’s breeches at the door of the companionway. She wore one of his oilskins draped about her shoulders and head, which did nothing to hide the wet clothing clinging to her long legs.
“Oinseach,” he muttered to himself.
The members of his crew began crossing themselves and muttering Irish curses; some began to spit. Ronan swung down the rigging as fast as possible to put himself between them and the girl before they revolted and threw her overboard.
“Go inside now, ye daft lass! Lock the door, and do not come out again!” he yelled. The look on her face as it crumbled into fear and shame as she turned to flee his wrath shot an arrow straight through his heart. He cursed roundly, then turned towards his men. He was ready for a fight. “Who of you wants to be thrown in the brig for the rest of the journey?”
The look on his face must have frightened them, for they all turned back to their duties without another word.
Once they began moving again, he would make them apologize. He should also post a guard at Grace’s door, but there was no one he completely trusted at the moment beyond himself or Paddy, who would be no match for any of the men. With a heavy sigh, he knew he would also have to apologize later. But first, he needed more hard labour of his own.
CHAPTER 6
Grace ran back down the stairs, closed the door behind her and set the latch. She leaned up against it while she caught her breath. Her heart was pounding with fear. What had she done to anger Carew so?
They had spent the afternoon so pleasantly, and now it was as though a different person inhabited his body completely.
Shivering, she went over to the window seat and curled into a ball, the flannel wrapped tight around her as she watched the rain fall against the glass.
As if she hadn’t been frightened enough, now her only ally seemed to be against her. She’d been brave and had not given in to tears again, but she was so very tempted, and her throat began to burn as she fought not to shed them.
Whenever she’d been upset before, one of her sisters had always been there to comfort her. That was clearly not an option, and she had no delusions that Carew would be willing to gather her in his arms and give her a kiss on the head, telling her everything would be well. The idea was laughable at best.
She gathered the sleeping Theo in her arms and held him against her chest. “You will have to do, my furry friend.” He was rather good at comforting her once, but after a ferocious bout ofself-pity, she decided escaping into another story was her best option.
Walking over to the bookshelf, she perused the titles again and stopped when she saw the one namedPersuasion. It was by a lady author, Jane Austen, who had only recently been named after her death. Grace had read some of her other works that she’d now been named authoress of, and had not been surprised that a lady had written them. Grace would have been hard put to accredit the clever wit about young ladies’ circumstances to a man. There had been entirely too much accuracy and understanding that she had yet to see in her brief experiences with the opposite sex. It was a shame the author had not been able to receive proper credit while she lived.
The beginning of the story did not capture her interest quite like Miss Austen’sPride and Prejudicehad, with the best opening sentence Grace had yet to read in a novel. However, she persisted, and once there was mention of a sea captain, it immediately piqued her curiosity.
“I believe I know how the story will end, but what diversions will occur along the way until then?” Grace often liked to predict what the author might do, but the only thing she felt certain of was there ought to be a happy ending for Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth. She was already inclined to dislike Sir Walter and Miss Elliot. They were most disagreeable, vain people—not to mention Lady Russell for her meddling—but it was the way of the world as they knew it, and Grace was fortunate she would be given the opportunity to choose. Yet there had already been two Seasons, and she had found no one to tempt her. That wasn’t entirely true. Carew had tempted her from afar, but he had never noticed her. There had been no one else, she amended.
There was a knock on the door, and she reluctantly put down her story to answer it. She padded across the floor and lifted up the latch and looked out. It was Paddy, holding a tray.
“Food for you, miss.” His brow furrowed as his gaze flicked downward, with an unmistakable curiosity in his eyes.
She held the door open for him to enter, then he set the tray on the table.
“I’ve brought your meal.”
“Thank you, Paddy,” Grace said warmly.
She couldn’t miss the way his eyes lingered, his expression a mixture of confusion and bemusement as he set the tray down on the small table.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” he said after a moment, straightening and scratching at his temple. “But I’ve never seen a lady wearing—” He gestured vaguely at her attire, his voice trailing off.
Grace glanced down at herself, suddenly aware of the loose-fitting breeches and oversized shirt that hung on her frame. She smiled, unable to help the laugh that escaped her lips. “Oh, these? I suppose it must look rather strange.”
