Surrender the Stars Read online

  Shielding her eyes, she saw only her parents and one or two ship's officers. Since there was no sign of her nemesis, Lindsay accepted the invitation.

  "Give your poor papa a hug," Raveneau greeted her, turning over the wheel to his first lieutenant. "I've been ignored of late!"

  Lindsay laughed and returned his embrace. "Papa, I've been packing! Besides, you have spent most of these past few days on board La Mouette."

  "Only to ensure that this voyage would be a happy one for you, ma fille. I even ordered this weather personally, trusting no one else to get it right. Do you approve?"

  It was an old joke, dating back to a time when she had believed her father actually could perform such miracles. "Of course I approve! It's a perfect day!" Dropping her head back, Lindsay pulled the pins from her hair and freed a bright waterfall of curls. The sky was astonishingly blue above her, and she suddenly felt joyous... until she caught sight of a familiar figure high in the mainmast's rigging. Even from this distance, she imagined that she could see the laughter in Ryan Coleraine's eyes before he sketched a salute at her and returned his attention to reefing the topgallant sail.

  "You're being too sensitive, you know," Raveneau murmured. "He may very well have meant that salute as a friendly gesture—and even if it was in jest, he doubtless does it to tease you. Why do you let the man chafe at you so?"

  "I can't help it, Papa. I despise him!"

  "Strong words, cherie," he cautioned. "And even if you do feel so strongly, you ought to endeavor to hide it from Coleraine. It seems to me that he's already treating you in a brotherly fashion. Knowing that he has the power to annoy you, he delights in using it."

  Something about this speech of her father's irked Lindsay. His choice of words seemed ill-advised. Shading her eyes, she wrinkled her nose with distaste and looked back up the mainmast. Ryan was descending the ratlines now, and Lindsay found herself staring at the play of long muscles in his thighs, the narrow lines of his hips, the breadth of his shoulders, and the glint of sunlight on his crisp black hair. When she realized her own thoughts, she looked quickly away, her cheeks aflame, until Ryan dropped lightly to the deck before her and dusted off his breeches. To Lindsay's further consternation, she discovered that her father had gone to join her mother at the rail.

  Eyeing her shirt and breeches, Ryan remarked lightly, "I hope you didn't dress up on my account."

  She tried to arch an eyebrow. "Actually, sir, I dressed down on your account!"

  "I'm sorry to hear it!" He laughed absently, then looked for Raveneau. "I know you'll think me cruel to deny you my company, but I must speak to your father. Excuse me."

  Lindsay fumed as she realized that she was standing alone and that if she went to join her parents it would appear she was following him. Still, she had little choice and approached the trio at the rail just as a man who looked vaguely familiar to her mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. He was stout, with thinning dark hair, rosy cheeks, and a dignified manner accentuated by the large pewter tray of rolls he carried.

  "Harvey!" Coleraine greeted the man with a grin. "Is it possible that those are—"

  "Hot cross buns, sir" came the response in stentorian British tones. "I baked them myself this morning before coming on board."

  "Captain Raveneau, have you met my steward, Harvey Jenkins? Harvey, you are in the presence of Captain Raveneau, his wife, and his daughter."

  "A rare privilege, I assure you," Harvey intoned, nodding all around. "I regret that I cannot salute, Captain. My hands are otherwise engaged."

  The aroma of the hot cross buns nearly dispelled Lindsay's embarrassing memory of her last encounter with Harvey on board the Chimera. At least, thankfully, his face gave nothing away as he extended the tray and waited for each of them to partake. When Harvey had gone and the men had begun talking again, Lindsay leaned toward her mother and whispered, "I can't believe that he had the gall to bring his steward with him! Does he pretend to command this ship?"

  Devon gave her a quelling look. In the ensuing silence, Lindsay heard her father say quietly, "It looks clear ahead?"

  "No sign of another mast all the way to the ocean, sir," Ryan assured him, "but that's not surprising considering the fact that we set sail east of the British fleet that's anchored south of New London."

  Raveneau nodded and gazed pensively out over the water. "It would seem that we're safe for the moment, but God knows what challenges wait for us in the Atlantic."

  Chapter 6

  May 4, 1814

  "I didn't expect you to be awake, sir." Harvey Jenkins stood in the doorway to Ryan's cabin, holding out an orange. "Considering the fact that you took watch most of the night, when you weren't even scheduled, and that Captain Raveneau sent you below to sleep, I thought that you would be in arms of Morpheus until early afternoon."

  Propped against pillows at the end of his bunk, Ryan looked up from a slender, well-leafed book. "Why are you here, then?"

  "I was going to leave this orange to provide sustenance upon your awakening."

  "My own mother never looked after me with half your devotion, Harvey." Accepting the perfect fruit, he wondered, "Where do you find these things?"

  "I think of it as an occupational duty, sir, preparing properly for voyages like this. I dare to hope that I may be the finest steward on any ship."

  "I'm sure you are, Harvey," Ryan concurred with a mixture of fondness and amusement. "It's just a shame that your talents are wasted on me."

  The steward smiled at that. "Would you like breakfast now, sir?"

  "Thank you, no. I think I may go up on deck for a bit."

  When Harvey had gone, Ryan lay back against the pillows and tossed the orange into the air a few times, wondering at the restlessness that had kept him awake and driven him aloft last night and now prevented him from sleeping for more than an hour this morning. He told himself that the constant threat of British attack had him on edge, and that was true. Used to stalking other ships, Ryan was unnerved by this dangerous situation that demanded they escape detection by the British fleet.

  He was further unnerved by the proximity of Lindsay Raveneau, but that was something he didn't want to think about. She had attempted to either avoid or ignore him during these first days at sea, and while he certainly wasn't pining for her company, he found her behavior irritating. Even during meals in the captain's cabin, which he had been invited to share as "one of the family," Lindsay tried to pretend he didn't exist. Last night, he'd pleaded fatigue and eaten alone.

  Sighing, Ryan sat up and pulled on his boots. He then tucked his shirt into dove-gray breeches, raked a hand through his hair, and picked up the book and orange. Instinctively adjusting to the sway of the ship, he went out into the gangway.

  "Silly thing!" scolded a feminine voice.

  Against his better judgment, Ryan glanced into Lindsay's open cabin. Sunlight poured through the transom, striking sparks over the bright banner of her hair. Clad in what he thought of as one of her "schoolteacher dresses," a modest, unrevealing frock of pale yellow muslin, Lindsay stood on a chair in her stockinged feet.

  Teetering precariously, she was trying to free a book from the highest-braced shelf.

  "Come here!" she warned it.

  "And I'd begun to think you didn't like me," Ryan remarked lightly, reaching up at the same time to pry loose the offending book.

  Lindsay was so startled that she cried out, then lost her balance as the ship rolled to starboard. The chair tipped and she found herself in Ryan's arms.

  "Must you always sneak up on me?" she demanded angrily.

  "I thought I was coming to the aid of a damsel in distress! Your lack of gratitude could discourage my chivalrous spirit."

  "And your brand of chivalry could kill me! Now put me down, you beast!"

  "I find it highly mysterious that two people as nice and intelligent as your parents could have raised such a termagant."

  Thrashing ineffectually in his strong embrace, Lindsay threatened, "Loose m
e, or I'll scream!"

  "Terrifying." He lowered his face to hers, one brow flicking upward as he felt her heart begin to pound against his chest. "Ask me nicely."

  She glared at him, clenching her teeth. Her father would not appreciate it if she made a scene for all the ship to hear, so Lindsay tried to ignore the traitorous response of her body to his nearness and said coolly, "I would appreciate it if you would release me, sir."

  "Not exactly heartwarming, but I suppose that will have to do," he decided. Walking over to the bunk, he dropped her lightly.

  "I detest you!" Lindsay spat, struggling to sit up.

  He nodded and reached over to pull her tangled skirts down over enticingly shaped legs. "So you've mentioned—with tedious frequency. I've been thinking, Miss Raveneau, that it might be advisable for you to consider polishing your conversational skills during this voyage if you hope to be a success in the drawing rooms of London."

  Her only response was a low growling sound.

  Ryan, meanwhile, turned his attention to the book he had pried from its shelf. "What are we reading? Byron? Oh, my, this is interesting!" Casually, he sat down at the other end of her bunk, leaned against the bulkhead, and opened the slim volume.

  She was about to upbraid him for soiling her bunk when a better approach occurred to her. Laughing as if he had just told a highly amusing joke, Lindsay exclaimed, "Come now, Captain Coleraine, certainly you don't expect me to believe that you can read!"

  His eyes were on the pages as he thumbed through them, but the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. "Shocking but true. And, at the risk of sounding immodest, I might add that reading is the least of my numerous talents."

  "That boast strikes me as more ridiculous than immodest," Lindsay muttered, surreptitiously studying his rakish profile.

  It seemed he hadn't heard her. "So, it was a craving for the pale, romantic Lord Byron that caused you to risk life and limb atop that chair! And for Childe Harold's Pilgrimage of all things. Tsk, tsk, Miss Raveneau. You give yourself away."

  "I don't know what you mean," she replied primly.

  "Don't you? You would have people believe that you're as dry as dust, without warmth or tears or dreams or passions, and yet you were about to immerse yourself in poetry that celebrates a debauched nobleman whose chief pastimes are riotous living and flagrant love affairs." Ryan reached for his orange and began to peel it while reading aloud. " 'Childe Harold through Sin's long labyrinth had run.' Boggles the imagination, hmm? 'With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe.' Now, Miss Raveneau, is it possible that you are able to find anything to identify with in such sentiments?"

  Lindsay had been staring at his long, golden-brown fingers as they deftly made a spiral of orange peel. Now feeling Ryan's eyes on her, full of mischief, she retorted, "It is not necessary to identify with fine literature to appreciate its worth, sir."

  He laughed aloud at that. "Ah, I see. You approach Byron from a loftier, more cerebral view than other females who swoon and spin fantasies of dark rapture over his poetry!" All too aware of the way she watched him peel and now eat the succulent orange, Ryan offered her a piece. "Hungry?"

  When Lindsay took the segment, their fingers brushed. "It's too rare and delicious-looking to waste on the likes of you."

  "You're welcome." He smiled.

  At that moment, there was a commotion on the gangway and the young face of Drew, erstwhile first mate on the Chimera, appeared in the doorway. "Captain Coleraine? You're needed on deck, sir."

  Rising lithely, Ryan looked back at Lindsay and sighed in mock dismay. "And we were having such a good time! Ah, well, duty calls. I realize that you must be desolate to see me go, but take heart! Now you have the orange all to yourself."

  Lindsay caught the half-eaten fruit, still warm from his hands, and watched Ryan exit. Curious, unsettled emotions churned inside of her. The realization that she was beginning to like him rankled, and as for the other feelings he stirred up...

  Straightening, Lindsay shook her head and sought distraction. An unfamiliar book lay at the far end of the bunk; on its spine, embossed in gold, was the name Wordsworth. Had her mother left it there? Puzzled, Lindsay reached for the beautifully bound volume and opened it. Inscribed on the flyleaf, in a strong, male hand, were the words: "Property of Ryan Burke Coleraine." The pages showed definite signs of use; this was a book that had been read and enjoyed many times. The first half of the book consisted of Wordsworth's long, autobiographical poem, The Prelude. Lindsay found herself looking at it with new eyes now as she realized how close Wordsworth's Lake District home was to Ireland. One particularly worn page contained the verse:

  Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe!

  Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought,

  That givest to forms and images a breath

  And everlasting motion, not in vain

  By day or star-light thus from my first dawn

  Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me

  The passions that build up our human soul...

  Lying back, Lindsay cradled the book against her breast, broke off another segment of orange, and wondered just what sort of man Ryan Coleraine really was.

  * * *

  Ominous charcoal-gray clouds were scudding across the afternoon sky as Ryan ascended to the quarterdeck. He discovered Captain Raveneau leaning against the larboard rail, his expression grim.

  "Take a look," the older man said, proffering a polished brass telescope.

  In the distance, Ryan could barely make out the billowing sails and three tall masts of a massive frigate which flew an American pennant.

  "Probably British, hmm?" he murmured.

  "Since we are flying the Union Jack, I'd say that's a safe assumption!" Raveneau agreed with a grim smile. "This penchant for false colors begins to border on the ridiculous. One begins to feel sure that every ship's true nationality is diametrically opposed to the flag it flies."

  "That frigate is enormous," Ryan assessed quietly, still looking through the telescope, "and it's giving chase. What do you intend to do?"

  "You know full well what I'd like to do! Nothing would please me more than to play with that overgrown monster for a few hours, then launch a creative attack and rid the ocean of one more British vessel. However," he sighed, "circumstances deny us such sport, which is precisely the reason I have prayed ever since we set sail that we might escape detection. We go to England as ostensibly peaceful, neutral visitors. There will be difficulties enough earning trust in London without destroying one of their ships before we even arrive!"

  Ryan winced, fearing what was coming. "Must we strike our colors and surrender?"

  "Well... there's no point in making it too easy. Let them chase us for a while." Raveneau gazed off into the distance. "My only worry, if they overtake us, is the charts."

  "Ah, that's right. Those charts could prove quite valuable to the British, couldn't they?"

  Andre nodded grimly. "They're filled with information about strategic means of entry into harbors all along the eastern seaboard. I should have removed them before we set sail, I suppose, but they might prove the difference for our own survival someday. Well, no point in worrying now. The charts are hidden, and with luck no one will ever have cause to search for them."

  "If anyone can outrun that frigate, it's you, sir," Ryan said reassuringly.

  "We, you mean!" Raveneau smiled, then turned to his businesslike first lieutenant, Mason, and gave the "all hands" order.

  Within moments, the decks and ratlines bristled with seamen clad in loose, knee-length trousers, striped jerseys and tarpaulin hats that had been waterproofed with tar or paint.

  Coleraine knew that he was probably the most competent privateer captain in active service at that time, but he felt no overpowering urge to offer advice to Andre Raveneau. Although the older man may not have been faced with this sort of challenge in recent years, he had practiced for more than thirty years, and Ryan never doubted that the outcome of this encounter wo
uld be governed by Raveneau's sure hand. The marks of a competent privateer captain were smart sail-handling and maneuvering abilities, good judgment of wind power and direction, and an intimate knowledge of his ship's capabilities. Captain Raveneau was expert in all three areas.

  Freed of responsibility, Ryan climbed the ratlines to join the topmen on the mast high above the slanting decks to supervise the energetic pulling and hauling of sails that accompanied Raveneau's orders to tack leeward. The wind was with them, fueled by the burgeoning storm clouds. Ryan prayed that the rain would wait.

  Belowdecks, Lindsay listened to the thundering of the slatting canvas and the stamping of what sounded like hundreds of feet as the sheets and braces were let go and hauled. In no time, she had shed her gown, replacing it with Nathan's shirt and breeches. She then dashed out into the gangway and collided with her mother, who was similarly garbed.

  "What's happening?" cried Lindsay.

  "From the sound of it, I'd say that we've been spotted by the British!"

  "Papa won't mind if we go above?"

  Devon, already on her way, tossed a smile over one shoulder. "Oh, certainly he'll mind, but if we stand our ground, he'll doubtless be too busy to press the issue. Better yet, he may not notice us for a while if we stay out of the way!"

  They clambered up the ladder and out through the hatch. Lindsay's first impression on the gun deck was that pandemonium reigned, but she soon realized that each seaman was engaged in a specific activity. Spotting Drew, she demanded, "Is there going to be a battle?"

  Devon overheard and blinked in surprise at her daughter's excited tone.

  "The captain says we should try to outrun them," Drew shouted above the din before he disappeared.

  La Mouette heeled over as the shifted sails caught a fresh blast of wind and altered the ship's course. Lindsay had adjusted to the pitching decks her first day on board, and now she balanced neatly, standing with arms akimbo.