The Captain of Her Heart

  Chapter Nine

  THE PROPOSITION

   

  Ritcherd managed to focus his eyes, only to see the top of a table very close to his face. He lifted his head and immediately regretted it as the pounding made him moan audibly. He didn’t ever remember a time he’d been so drunk that he’d not made it to bed. He didn’t know for certain why he decided in that moment not to get drunk anymore, but it was likely a combination of hating these headaches and knowing he would never find Kyrah if he didn’t stay sober.

  Kyrah. He felt sick inside wondering what she might be going through right now. He could easily imagine her fear and wished desperately that he was with her. She had already suffered so much. She didn’t deserve this. Why, he kept asking himself over and over. Why did this have to happen? Ritcherd moaned again as his thoughts seemed to intensify the pounding in his head.

  “The dead do come back to life,” a light-hearted voice said from behind him, making his ears ring. Ritcherd turned carefully to see George sitting casually with his feet up—smiling. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you, my friend.”

  “This isn’t a good time,” Ritcherd said, feeling as though his mouth was full of cotton. Then he put his head back down on the table, moaning again.

  “I’ve been trying to find you alone for several days. It wasn’t a good time the night of the party, and I stopped by yesterday and heard you rampaging. I knew that wasn’t a good time. I’ve been here half a dozen times since and found you gone. So, good time or not, I’m going to talk to you.”

  “Get on with it then,” Ritcherd said without lifting his head.

  “A little attention please,” George said. “I’d at least like to know you’re not asleep.”

  Ritcherd lifted his head and turned in his chair, looking at George through dazed eyes. “I’m attentive.”

  “How do you feel about the revolution in the colonies?” he began, and immediately Ritcherd was puzzled. This was not the usual brand of conversation between them.

  “I nearly lost my arm fighting for England,” he said, feeling more alert.

  “And was it worth it?"

  “Why?” Ritcherd looked intently at George, whose demeanor was casual, but his eyes were severe.

  “What were you fighting for?” George asked cautiously.

  “England.”

  Dissatisfied with the answer, George sighed, wondering how to get the hardheaded, cursory Ritcherd Buchanan to get beyond this surface conversation. He cleared his throat and reworded the question. “What is this war all about?"

  “There is no reason for me to tell you that.”

  “Well then, I’ll tell you . . . my theory at least.” George stood and began walking with purpose about the room, glancing occasionally at his friend. “There are people—many of them from recent English ancestry—who have decided they don’t want to live under the king’s reign any longer. They want a place where there is freedom from the king’s taxation, freedom of religion, and of course, freedom from social barriers.”

  Ritcherd sat up straighter. George seemed to have expected it.

  “These people have been less than affectionately called rebels and traitors, and our king has armies over there trying to stop them from gaining the independence they need in order to establish such freedom.”

  “What is your point, George?”

  “I’m a traitor.”

  Ritcherd truly looked surprised, but George would have been disappointed if he hadn’t. At least he had his attention—which was definitely progress.

  Ritcherd found it difficult to comprehend that this man, who had never seemed to care about anything more than living life to its fullest—with as many women and parties as he could possibly fit in—was now fighting for a cause. Recalling that George had left the country nearly a year before Ritcherd had gone to war, he had to wonder if there was a connection. “Why?” Ritcherd asked pointedly.

  “Because I believe in it.”

  “I can give you credit for that. And I certainly wouldn’t turn you in.”

  “I know that, or I wouldn’t have told you.”

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “Because I need help.”

  “Help?” Ritcherd laughed, then regretted it when his head rebelled. Absorbed with what was facing him right now, he retorted, “I don’t think I’m in a position to help anybody.”

  “I don’t need you,” George said forthrightly. “I need money.”

  “Money?” Ritcherd laughed again. “What happened to yours? Your family’s not so bad off.”

  “You have to remember I’m not the oldest son like you are. I didn’t inherit the whole lot. I’ve used everything I can get my hands on for this cause. Now my resources have gone dry.”

  “So you intend to drain me as well?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t already know that you’ve got enough to spend foolishly for a lifetime, and still not know what to do with the rest.”

  “What do you need this money for?” he asked, and George felt hopeful. At least he was interested enough to ask.

  “A ship.”

  “A ship?"

  “Must you repeat everything I say?”

  “What would you do with a ship?” Ritcherd asked.

  “The same thing I’ve been doing with one for the past three years. But the ship we had was shot down. It sank.”

  “Shot down?”

  “There you go again.”

  “Well, what do you mean shot down?” Ritcherd leaned toward George. He was beginning to see this was no game.

  George looked down solemnly and cleared his throat. “We were fired upon by a British Letter of Marque.”

  Ritcherd’s brows went up. He knew there were many private vessels with written permission from the king to fight on his behalf at sea. But he wondered what George had been involved in to come up against one of them. “And?” he urged.

  “And what?”

  “What happened?”

  “I told you. It sank.”

  “Listen to me, George. Like it or not, I’m a captain in the king’s army with more experience than I care to admit to. If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, I have a right to know what’s happening here. And I want to know everything.”

  George sighed and sat back down. He had hoped to accomplish this without having to get into the details so deeply. But he was determined to see it through, and knowing he had to work on Ritcherd’s terms, he cleared his throat again and went on. “Fine, then I’ll start at the beginning. You know, of course, that our fathers were very good friends.”

  “Yes,” Ritcherd drawled. This was the last place he’d expected this explanation to begin.

  “You know they went regularly to London together, where they spent a great deal of time. And you also know they shared a number of business investments.”

  “Yes,” Ritcherd said again, although he’d remained relatively ignorant of his father’s interests. William Buchanan had never seemed to want his son involved in anything that required interaction between them.

  “Well, one of their major investments had to do with shipping. Now, I’m almost as ignorant of the details as you are. However, our fathers also had a mutual friend, who was very much into shipping. And through circumstances I won’t bore you with, I became good friends with this man’s grandson. It was through this friend I became involved in my present endeavors.”

  “Which would be . . . precisely?”

  “The ship was called the Falcon Star . . . a privateer.”

  Ritcherd swallowed his reaction and simply said, “You’ve been sinking British ships?” He thought of the one he’d sailed home on, not so long ago.

  “We’ve done our best to avoid the actual fighting—although sometimes it’s unavoidable. We concentrate most of our efforts on smuggling arms, ammunition, and supplies to the colonists.”

  “Good heavens, man,” Ritcherd said, standing at last. He clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s amazing yo
u’re still alive.”

  “More amazing than you’d believe,” he said with a severity that made Ritcherd wonder what else he’d been up to.

  “So what happened when this Falcon Star went down?” Ritcherd pressed.

  “Just as I said. We were fired upon. We fought back but they did us in. The ship went down with full cargo.”

  “Which was?"

  “Arms and ammunition,” George said tersely. “Now you’re making me repeat everything.”

  “How bad was the loss?”

  George looked to the side quickly and folded his arms. “We had invested everything we could get our hands on for that run. We were hoping to get enough profit from it to be able to make another.” George paused and looked directly at Ritcherd. “We lost twenty-three men.” His expression betrayed how deep the loss had been. Having faced battlefronts himself, he knew exactly what George was feeling.

  A long silence preceded Ritcherd’s stating, “And now you’re going to try again.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you want my help.”

  “That’s right.” When Ritcherd remained silent, George got to the point. “Will you do it?”

  “What exactly do you want me to do?” he asked, facing him directly.

  “Finance a ship. But this is no loan I’m asking for. I’m asking you to give it to me.”

  Ritcherd chuckled without humor. “And what do I get out of it?”

  “Not a blasted thing.”

  “Well, at least you’re honest,” Ritcherd said with sarcasm. “I spent three of the worst years of my life fighting those colonists. Do you suppose it was one of the guns you smuggled in that nearly got my arm blown off?”

  George sighed. “I’ve thought about that,” he said, and Ritcherd saw a flash of confusion in his eyes.

  “Why are you doing this?” Ritcherd went on. “What is it that gives you the conviction to risk so much, and to continue taking risks when you’ve lost so much?”

  “I’d like to turn that around if I may,” George replied with purpose in his expression. “What is it that this country has given you that makes you defend it? What kind of system is it that lets people like your mother run people like the Paynes into the ground?”

  Ritcherd shot George an angry glare. He’d struck a sensitive nerve and he knew it. But it was evident that George didn’t know about the latest event in the ongoing drama. And how could Ritcherd argue? He knew George was right. He hated this aristocratic system. He believed that people should be treated equally regardless of money or social status. And he knew that the American colonists didn’t believe in titles, nor did they judge people by family names or background. Wasn’t it the very reason he had made such an immature display just yesterday with his mother’s china? Still, Ritcherd loved his homeland. In the years he’d been gone he’d come to miss this beautiful place where he’d grown up, and he had fought very hard for his king.

  George knew he needed to give Ritcherd time to think, but he began to feel impatient with the continuing silence. Attempting to lighten the mood with some small talk, he asked, “Where were you last night anyway? I tried late. And I didn’t see your horse at Kyrah’s place.”

  “I was at the pier,” he answered blandly.

  “Really? Was there any action?”

  “None,” he replied, “I was all alone.”

  “That’s where I was the night before,” George said easily. “It was pretty dull then, too.”

  Ritcherd turned to look at George as if he’d never seen him before. “You were what?” he asked, wondering if he’d heard correctly.

  “I was at the pier . . . night before last,” George repeated, wondering why it seemed so important.

  Ritcherd came to his feet, ignoring the pain in his head. “How long were you there?”

   “All night, actually,” George answered. “It was unfortunate for me that I wasn’t able to leave until the sun came up.”

  “And this was the night of the party?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did any ships leave?"

  “Just one.”

  “Tell me what you know,” Ritcherd said, sitting near his friend and leaning forward expectantly.

  George was baffled, but he was willing to discuss just about anything if it might bring out Ritcherd’s sympathy toward his cause. “I was watching to see if a certain man got on that ship—as a favor to a friend. I waited all night. As it was, he came running down the pier just as the ship was lifting anchor. He got on board and the ship left.”

  “Whose ship was it?”

  “It’s a privateer vessel.” He smirked. “But that’s a secret, of course. It’s a barque called the Libertatia, and was supposedly going to Jamaica. But I know different.”

  Ritcherd glanced heavenward and briefly squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps God had heard his prayers after all. “What do you know?” he demanded, returning his focus to George.

  “It was going to the colonies—with smuggled goods.”

  “Oh, help,” Ritcherd murmured. Now he knew. Kyrah was on her way to a country at war—with privateers, no less. But he knew! Instead of feeling as if he’d be swallowed up by a dark cloud of hopelessness and ignorance, he knew where she was going. He had a place to start. “What?!” George asked, throwing his hands in the air.

  Ritcherd was silent a long moment before he asked, “Did you recognize anyone else who boarded?”

  “Just a bunch of scruffy-looking sailors. Nobody you’d know. Why?”

  “Did any women board?”

  “If a woman got on board, she was either awfully ugly, or she was carried on disguised as cargo.” He’d meant it facetiously, but Ritcherd’s expression intensified.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . . all I saw was a bunch of ugly sailors loading supplies. They took all kinds of crates and sacks aboard. What are you trying to get at?”

  Again Ritcherd was silent. When he spoke at last, George was surprised by the zeal and determination in his voice. “Exactly what are your plans at this point . . . if you had a ship?”

  “Well, right now we’ve got a stable full of arms and ammunition. We got a good price and came up with some credit. When we get a ship we’ll load it up. We sail to the colonies, dock the ship at night in an inconspicuous place, and take the goods ashore once we find a suitable buyer. When the ship’s empty we claim to be on whoever’s side we need to be in order to dock and get supplies, then we come back.”

  “It sounds dangerous.”

  “It is. But we’ve learned the ropes. These men are good. The captain doesn’t press for men or drag them out of a local tavern. The size of our crew has diminished somewhat, but he far prefers quality over quantity, and that usually means less risk of betrayal. We can trust these men, and if we’re careful, we usually don’t have any trouble. You’d be surprised what a big business this is. But we’re not in it for the profit like many people are. The point is, however, that there are a lot of other people, if you’ll pardon the pun, who are in the same boat, and are willing to help us if we’ll help them. We’ve been doing it long enough to know who those people are.”

  Ritcherd became thoughtful again and George waited expectantly, sensing something deep, even emotional in Ritcherd’s expression. He was surprised, nevertheless, that Ritcherd’s answer had such conviction. “I’ll do it,” he said with enthusiasm.

  “You will?”

  “Yes,” he smiled, “but . . .”

  “But what?” George asked, afraid of what conditions he might put on the deal.

  “Well, it will be my ship, right? What I mean is . . . I don’t have to give it to you. I could just buy it and let you use it. Right?”

  “I suppose,” George said. “But what would you want with a ship?”

  “A good investment, don’t you think? Let’s go buy a ship.”

  George stood and glared at Ritcherd. “You said there was a but.”

  “There is.”

  “Tell me
. I want to know before we go through with this.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Would you like me to repeat it?” Ritcherd asked.

  George’s brow furrowed with confusion. “I thought you were getting married.”

  Ritcherd looked away solemnly and answered, “Not just yet.”

  “May I ask wh—”

  “No,” Ritcherd cut him off.

  “Fine,” George said, holding his hands up. “I’m not about to intrude when it comes to women.”

  “How long will it take?” Ritcherd asked. “To get the ship, I mean.”

  “There’s one in the harbor just waiting to be purchased. And it’s exactly what we need. Apparently it’s practically new. It was custom built, then the buyer didn’t come through. Once the transaction takes place, it’s just a matter of some necessary maintenance and loading it up. I can notify the captain and he can be here from Falmouth in no time to get things underway. He’s already seen the ship, so it’s up to you.”

  “How long before we can sail?” he asked with obvious impatience.

  “Five days . . . say four if we push it. The captain is anxious to get the goods out of the country.”

  Ritcherd smiled. “Perfect.”

  Again George felt puzzled, but he knew that whatever was behind Ritcherd’s motivations, he was in no mood to talk about it. So George just changed the subject. “What are you going to name it?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your ship. It has to have a name.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I’ll come up with something before we sail—something with a good omen. This ship of mine is going to bring about good things.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” George said, mimicking a pirate smirk.

  Ritcherd laughed. He actually felt hope.

  “Give me ten minutes to clean up,” Ritcherd said, “and we’ll take care of it now.”

  Ritcherd went with George to the Golden Lion, where he said the owner of the ship could be found every afternoon. He wasn’t there when they arrived, but since it was just past noon, they sat together to eat. George was certain he would be there before long.

  Ritcherd found it difficult to keep his thoughts from Kyrah. The last time he had eaten here, it had been with her. The whole thing was so awful. He hated every minute that ticked by, knowing it was taking her farther from him. But at least he had the knowledge and the means to find her. He had to keep his thoughts focused on the positive, or he would go mad.

  The owner of the ship appeared before their meal was finished. George made introductions that Ritcherd barely heard before the three of them went together to the pier, where the ship was docked. Ritcherd was pleased immediately with the sight of it, and realized now that it had been there along with a few others last night when he’d been at the pier.

  The owner called the vessel a barquentine, then went on to explain to Ritcherd that of the three masts, only the foremost was square-rigged. The other two were fore and aft. From the detailed description this man was giving him, Ritcherd wondered if it was so obvious that he knew absolutely nothing about ships. As they were taken aboard and given a tour, he explained a great deal about the ship’s structure, most of which was totally lost on Ritcherd. But he couldn’t help being impressed with the vessel, and he could see that George was as well.

  Following the tour, Ritcherd confirmed that he would buy the ship, and they settled on an amount as well as a time to meet later that day. George laughed out loud as they left the pier together. Ritcherd went with George to send word with a courier to Falmouth, where the captain and crew were waiting.

  “Tell them to hurry,” Ritcherd said while George was writing the message.

  George just smiled. “Don’t fret, Ritch. They’ll hurry.”

  When that was seen to, George went with Ritcherd to get the money at the bank. They met the owner at the office of Ritcherd’s solicitor, where the transaction was completed. Ritcherd stayed behind when the others left, needing a private word with his solicitor. James Hatfield was a man Ritcherd had counted on long before his father’s death. He was honest, efficient, reliable, and discreet. In a voice completely void of emotion, Ritcherd explained to Mr. Hatfield the occurrences of the last few days. He told him of his plans, and made full arrangements to see that Sarah’s needs were taken care of. Mr. Hatfield offered some sound advice and assured Ritcherd that he would keep the matter quiet. Ritcherd didn’t want anyone to know where he was going—especially anyone who might tell his mother.

  It was late when Ritcherd returned to Buckley Manor, entering through a seldom-used side door in order to avoid being seen. He was both exhausted and satisfied with the day’s accomplishments. He had made some very big steps in setting his feet upon the road that would lead to Kyrah. He prayed the road would not be too long or too hard—for either of them.