“You naughty, naughty boy. I gave you that sling so you’d take more interest in your Sunday school lessons. How many times must I explain, it is only to be used when we pretend Goliath is a tree. We do not aim stones at living creatures. And what is that red smudge on your cheek? Oh, tell me you haven’t been eating my cranberry tarts. Papa’s client is dining with us this evening, and now what shall I serve him? Listen to me, prattling on about cranberry tarts, while this poor fellow lies . . .”
Lorena knelt beside the body. Grass stuck up around the stranger’s form like the staves of an unfinished basket. Warily, she leaned closer to listen for his breathing. Her hand trembled, suspended over his rugged face with its darker blond side whiskers. She was tempted to reach out and touch him as a sense of destiny moved fleetingly through her spirit.
Drew pulled a dirt-stained finger from his mouth. “We should get away, Lorena. Before he wakes. He is a dangerous giant. I can tell by the looks of him.”
Lorena snatched back her hand. The clever mite did have a point. He was an exceptionally astute child, she was proud to admit, although she felt none too proud of this latest show of his abilities.
Straightening, she released the breath she’d been holding. “Yes, we should be gone. He is not seriously injured, only stunned, thank goodness. He’ll fare well enough, although I do despise the thought of leaving an unconscious man unattended,” she went on, as much to herself as to Drew, “but Papa’s workmen shall be arriving any moment now. They’ll find him and revive him, if he hasn’t already done so himself.”
Then, hopefully, this man, whoever he was, would continue on his way, go back to wherever it was he’d come from and forget the whole incident.
Or perhaps his employer would happen by and find him asleep on the job.
Oh, Lorena, how can you jest? She was a Christian woman, but she wasn’t stupid enough to wait around until he woke and face a possible wrathful confrontation between this colossus and a small boy, who had clobbered him with a well-aimed stone.
And then it occurred to her that Drew indeed had saved her, for this man’s last words were “But first it is my desire . . .” What had been his desire? she wondered. A kiss?
She glanced at the unshaven face and blushed to the roots of her heavy cloud of curls.
“When we get home, Lorena, will you read to me again of David?”
Lorena smiled down at the precious golden child God had placed in her care to love and protect. She’d deal with Drew’s misconduct later, but right now her heart couldn’t help but fill to bursting at her little misguided hero. She leaned forward, hands on knees, and addressed him sweetly. “If you wish to hear more of King David, we shall read his psalms. You need to learn David’s wisdom before you mimic his actions, or the next thing I know you’ll be trotting off to slay a bear. Tonight we’ll start with—”
A loud groan erupted from the stranger sprawled on the thick carpet of marsh turf. For a moment they both froze as the man stirred.
Lorena grabbed Drew’s hand, and they ran like Elisha fleeing the wrath of Queen Jezebel.
2
I’ve already told you, Jabez, I don’t know what happened. I was about to inform the girl she could expect to receive me this evening by saying, ‘It is my desire to know what you shall be serving for supper,’ when the next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the grass with the worst headache of my life.”
Brogan angled his face in his handheld traveling mirror as he shaved. “But you can be certain I intend on finding that skinny slip of a scullery maid and discovering whaaa . . . ahhhhhk . . . enough of this contemptible blade!”
Blood pooled on his chin as he flung the straight-edged razor into a porcelain bowl with such disgust that soapy water splashed over the rim onto the night table and dripped to the floor.
Then, for no other reason than because the fellow happened to be standing nearby, Brogan directed his aggravation at his chief mate, who was presently leaning against the doorjamb of the room they’d taken at the inn. “Shall I interpret that smirk to mean you’re about to laugh, Mr. Smith? If so, pray, let me caution you. Do not give in to it.”
Jabez Smith shook off the threat with a shrug of his brawny shoulders while across his densely freckled face stretched a grin that deepened the creases at the corners of his dark blue eyes. “I find it so unlike ye, Cap’n,” he bellowed in a voice deep and resounding enough to be heard over a strong quartering wind. “In all our years together—and they’ve been many—I’ve never known ye to be careless.”
He uncrossed burly arms from over a thick barrel of a chest and stepped forward into a pool of warm sunlight slanting in from the open window. He smelled of the sea, and in the glaring brightness his coarse head of coppery curls and bushy side whiskers came ablaze with glowing tints of orange and gilt.
“Carelessness is unthought of in privateering if a man values his life. A privateer has to have skill, courage, and endurance. But most of all, a privateer has to stay alert. And you, sir, were one of the greatest American privateer captains in the War of 1812. And here I see this brave, daring master of the sea seated on the edge of a bed, whining over a sore head and a razor nick on his chin.”