His breath caught.
That morning he had mistaken her for a servant, but she hardly fit the part now, did she, dressed in finery with her hair bound at her crown and silver earrings dangling from her ears?
In kerchief and soiled work clothes, she had been fetching. This evening, however, with her beauty displayed to full advantage, she stole all logical reason from his mind. He’d been certain nothing could distract him from his course of action, but suddenly all his long-awaited plans were swept away in a wave of attraction, and he was conscious of nothing save the blood pumping beneath his skin.
Brogan deepened his shallow breathing until his heart slowed to normal, and when at last he could breathe freely again, his anger had increased tenfold.
So the skinny scullery maid was not a maid at all. Nay, she was a rich shipbuilder’s daughter, but did that give her license to bash a man over the head and then leave him rotting in the wet marsh, while nasty midge flies flew up his nose and gnawed on his flesh? His jaw clenched, tightening the surrounding muscle and straining the cords of his neck, until Brogan felt his head might explode. Were it not for the others present, he would demand she explain what trickery she’d used to knock him out cold.
But he refused to say a word. Aye, she owed him an explanation, but to mention the incident now would only heap embarrassment upon himself.
And she did have pretty ankles. Thinking of them made it possible to smile in the face of his displeasure. Brogan bridged the distance between them with a few strides and bowed.
As he reached out, she placed slender fingers in his broad, callused palm and greeted, “Welcome to our home, Captain. I hope this evening finds you faring in the best of health.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Huntley, and good evening. I am well, aye. However, I did have the earlier misfortune of having been struck with a headache. It came upon me suddenly and with great force.”
It was an odd greeting for the lady of the house, to which she paled, her smile waning into an expression of remorse. She reclaimed the hand, but not before Brogan felt her tremble, and moved in a manner to block Drew from his view with the shimmery folds of her gown, much in the manner of a mother hen hiding her chick beneath a wing.
“I am very sorry to hear it, sir,” she said.
Brogan dismissed the apology with a silent harrumph and leaned toward his son. “How fare you, Drew? We would have met earlier, but I think perhaps I may have frightened you on the stairs this morning.”
The little fellow stepped out from hiding, but instead of accepting the hand Brogan offered, he pointed a finger at his father and shouted, “I do not fear giants. George says you’re a pirate. Are you a pirate?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, running his gaze over Brogan’s person. “Where is your sword?”
The only sound in the room was that of Jabez’s deep, husky chuckle.
Huntley’s daughter colored with embarrassment. “Perhaps you misunderstood George,” she told the boy. “We shall ask him later, but regardless, that is not a polite question for our guest.”
“It is a fair question,” Brogan countered. “I wish to answer the boy.”
Brogan saw the surprise on her face, but Miss Huntley merely conceded with a graceful nod. “As you wish, Captain.”
Turning from her, he braced a hand on each thigh as he bent to address the child. “Drew, I was granted a letter of marque signed by the president to serve as a privateer during the war. I am not a pirate. There is a difference.”
“George says there is no difference.”
Brogan straightened. He did not know this George, though the name did ring familiar. As for Drew, his son had pluck for such a wee one. It filled him with pride, and in response, his smile was one of love and patience. “Oh, does he now? Well, you can assure George there is a considerable difference. Would you like to know what that difference is?”
The lad stuck a finger in his mouth and mumbled something that, as far as Brogan could decipher, sounded like, “Uh-huh.”
“Then I shall tell you.” Clasping his hands behind his back in a wide-legged stance as though he were once again braced for balance on the schooner Black Eagle, Brogan explained, “A pirate acts out of greed, but a privateer serves his country. Take for instance this war past. Our American navy amounted to a paltry seven frigates and fifteen armed sloops. England faced us with eight hundred war vessels, almost two hundred of which were ships of the line. Now, Drew, how would you propose to defend your country in such an instance?”