The Captain of Her Heart



  The Captain of Her Heart

   

  Volume I of the Buchanan Saga

   

  By Anita Stansfield

  Copyright 2012 Anita Stansfield

  Published by Crosswalk Books. First Electronic Printing May 2012.

   

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

   

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission in writing from the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

   

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY ANITA STANSFIELD

  CAPTIVE HEARTS SAMPLE CHAPTER

   

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

   

   

   

   

  DEDICATION

   

  To my daughter, Anna.

  I see in you the child I once was.

  May your imagination serve you well.

  Never, never, never let go of that creative part of you;

  let it be one of the brightest, strongest threads in the tapestry of your life.

   

   

   

   

  Too long ago, too long apart.

  She couldn’t wait another day for

  the captain of her heart.

   Double

   

   

   

   

   

  PROLOGUE

  The American Colonies—February, 1777

   

  Ritcherd Buchanan threw his cloak behind his shoulders and mounted the waiting stallion. He gave the order for his men to move forward, and the long trek to their appointed battlefront began. The horse beneath him plodded along in perfect time to the drummer’s beat, as if the animal had an innate sense of rhythm. The same beat that kept the foot soldiers on cue seemed to measure the pounding of Ritcherd’s heart as he contemplated the inevitable. Somewhere at the end of this brief journey, a battle was imminent. Some men would die. Some men would be maimed. And every man would be changed forever.

  Their preparations had been thorough and absolute, their training complete. But Ritcherd felt unprepared. He wondered what he’d done to warrant being put in charge of these men, many of them little more than boys. They had looked up to him and trusted him, and now he was following orders that would alter their lives. He had taught them to believe in the cause they were fighting for, to honor king and country, and to see these rebel colonists undone. But in his heart, he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself. Certainly not enough to die for it. And that’s where he had to admit he was afraid. He didn’t want to die. He had too much to live for. First and foremost was Kyrah.

  Kyrah. Thoughts of her softened his anxiety. From the first time he’d laid eyes on her, he had been fascinated by her in a way he could never explain. He’d often wondered if the timing of her appearance in his life had somehow compensated for the recent loss of his sister. Perhaps that could explain the way he was initially drawn to her. But as time had passed, something rich and deep had kept them close. And being without her now was the most difficult thing he’d ever endured.

  As his men pressed on to the never-ending beat of a single drum, Ritcherd wondered what Kyrah might be doing now. He imagined her running over the moors of Cornwall, her dark hair flying in the wind. It hadn’t been so many months since he’d seen her, but it seemed like centuries. And he knew it would be a long, long while before he saw her again—if ever. No, he couldn’t think that way. He had to live to see her again. He had to. She had barely been on the brink of womanhood when he’d kissed her good-bye, and his first order of business when he returned would be to ask for her hand in marriage. He would live to see that day. He would!

  Please God, he prayed silently, over and over, let me live to see Kyrah again. Please . . .

  “Captain.” A voice interrupted his thoughts and startled him.

  “Yes, lieutenant,” Ritcherd replied.

  “We’re approaching the rendezvous point, sir.”

  “Very good,” Ritcherd said. “You know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said and rode quickly away to see to his predetermined orders.

  Ritcherd’s prayer stayed with him as the battle proceeded, but he found that he was far more frightened than he’d anticipated. He fought to push the fear away and show the courage he knew these men needed to see in him in order to stand strong. But inside, his heart beat so quickly that he feared it alone would kill him.

  Amidst the chaos of the ensuing skirmish, he found himself alone in a patch of trees. Seeing a vantage point ahead where he could get a better view of their situation, he wove carefully between the closely rooted aspens, attempting to ignore the continuing sounds of gunfire, explosions, and anguish floating to his ears. Consciously fighting back his own fears, he continued to pray in his mind and kept pressing forward.

  Briefly distracted by a sudden volley of cannon fire aimed toward the largest body of his men, he was surprised to hear a familiar voice speak distinctly behind him. “Get your head down, boy. There’s one coming right at you!”

  Startled by the presence of someone close by as much as from the warning, Ritcherd immediately ducked and heard a bullet whistle just above his head a split second later. In the moment it took him to realize he could have been dead right then, Ritcherd dropped to his belly and quickly started easing back the way he’d come. Following the time it would take to reload a rifle, another shot rang out. Obviously someone had gotten sight of him and pegged him as an officer. Ritcherd ran as soon as the second bullet whizzed past, knowing it would take the gunman several seconds to reload again. He turned as he gained momentum, wondering who to thank for saving his life, but no one was there. Certain that whoever it was had turned and run for his own life, Ritcherd concentrated on getting to a place where he couldn’t be seen.

  The battle raged on for hours, and it wasn’t until the wounded had been cared for and the dead tallied that Ritcherd sat to record the day’s events. He hated the sick knots that tightened in his stomach as he mentally put faces to the list of casualties, but he had to stop and utter a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving that he was not among them. Recalling the incident in detail, Ritcherd tried to pinpoint the voice of the man who had warned him without a second to spare.

  “Stephen,” he murmured before he even realized what he was saying. Then he chuckled to himself at the absurdity. Kyrah’s father was back in England, caring for his sweet daughter until Ritcherd could return and take over the job. He told himself he needed to stop letting his imagination run away from him, and made a mental note to see which man had a voice that reminded him of Stephen’s—if that man was still alive.

  Returning to his record, Ritcherd felt something stab at him as he realized that today was Kyrah’s sixteenth birthday. Much later, when he finally crawled into his makeshift bed and tried to talk himself out of being cold, his mind drifted to what her day’s activities might have entailed. Oh,
how he missed her! Tears burned his eyes as he contemplated the reality of what this war had put between them. But he forced the tears back, certain that if he started crying he’d never be able to stop. And his men needed him to be strong.

  Recommitting himself to doing whatever it would take to get him through this, he finally drifted off to sleep, once again thanking God for surviving this day.