The Captain of Her Heart

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  Ritcherd became frustrated and increasingly tense with his preoccupation of finding Kyrah. Unable to do anything more about it for the time being, he made up his mind to find something to keep him occupied—for the sake of his sanity. He tried to find a way to help with the work, but everything was run so efficiently, he felt hardly needed. Still, he did his best to help here and there, in spite of his awkwardness with the limited use of his right hand. The men were cordial for the most part, but seemed hesitant to say too much.

  He began to enjoy the time of day when the work was completed. The men gathered in groups where they’d talk and laugh, while Ritcherd remained a silent observer. He found every one of them to be colorful and unique, and began to enjoy their sailor’s chatter and exchange of stories. He watched for hours while they played dice or cards, betting only with seashells or insignificant paraphernalia, which left the games purely for entertainment and to pass the time. He wasn’t surprised to note that George was usually the center of the fun. He was always joking and teasing, and he seemed to know each of the sailors well as individuals.

  While Ritcherd was trying to pick up the names of the men he was sailing with, he noticed that Patrick was something of an assistant to Captain Garret, though it seemed more like they were closer as friends than anyone else in the group, rather than Patrick’s having any distinction of rank or knowledge of sailing. Patrick was quiet and a bit intimidating by his stature, and his hair was usually hanging in his eyes. But often during their relaxation time, he would perform little magic tricks. He had no props, but used everyday items that were handy. As casually as breathing, Patrick would often make eating utensils, money, scarves or other odd things disappear or turn into something else. Ritcherd knew it was just illusion and sleight of hand, but he was fascinated by the ease with which he did it, making it seem almost real. He noted too how it helped to keep the men’s spirits high. This group was far happier than he would have expected from men at sea. Ritcherd’s previous journeys to and from the colonies had been difficult and discouraging for him. He’d mostly kept to himself, but he’d been keenly aware of discontentment and contention. On the Phoenix, however, these men had no apparent animosities between them. Ritcherd figured that for whatever reason each of them was involved in this cause, they were making the most of it. He wondered if the majority of them were simply patriots, or if they were doing it for sport. Observing them more closely, he began to wonder how many of them might be aristocrats in disguise, as he and George were. Or were they from as diverse backgrounds as they seemed to be?

  Captain Garret was heavily involved with social life aboard the Phoenix. And the more Ritcherd observed him, the more he liked him. He was amazed at the way Garret could appear so menacing and intimidating—unless he smiled. His smile always gave him away immediately. But the men did what he asked of them without question, and he doubted that their homage had anything to do with the fear he was capable of instilling in others. Their respect for him was evident. And no matter how Ritcherd looked at Garret, he had to admire him. He had a straight-forward, lighthearted way of dealing with every situation that came up. Garret could be confronted with any problem, however large or small, and calmly take it for what it was worth and solve it.

  The only thing Garret didn’t take in stride was the way George Morley frequently burst into the captain’s cabin to get his attention. Garret would rarely, if ever, show that he was startled. But he would inevitably get angry and tell George if he did that again, he was going to have him walk the plank. With Ritcherd sharing the captain’s cabin, he was usually around when the unexpected appearances occurred. But it had taken several days before he realized it was all a joke. Garret never cracked a smile while George was still in the room. But gradually Ritcherd learned how to read Garret’s silent amusement in the situation, and he could see that Garret and George knew each other well.

  Gradually Ritcherd became more comfortable around the men, but he still felt very much on the outside. In spite of his changed appearance and his efforts to learn to speak as they did, he wondered if he simply didn’t fit in. Or perhaps it was his solemn mood that kept him severed from the group. Whatever it was, for the first time in his life, Ritcherd felt unaccepted. But his humility caused him introspection rather than any kind of resentment. He wondered if he might have gained some minor insight as to how Kyrah might have felt in facing her struggles all alone.

  Ritcherd spent a great deal of time holding Kyrah’s brooch, fingering the clasp. It challenged him. He remembered well his humility when he’d had to admit he couldn’t unfasten the simple clasp, and he wanted to be able to use his right hand. He worked on it each day until he became frustrated and stuffed it back into his pocket. But the following day would find him at it again.

  “What happened to that arm?” Garret asked in his normal voice while Ritcherd toyed with the brooch one afternoon. It was only when they were alone together that he didn’t use the sailor’s drawl. Besides himself, it seemed that only George and Patrick were aware that he could talk any other way.

  Ritcherd glanced at Garret, who sat casually across the table in the cabin. He was surprised by the question. Although they’d been at sea for weeks and had gotten along well, there had been little conversation beyond necessary exchanges.

  “I was shot,” Ritcherd replied simply.

  “War?” Garret asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You must feel a little vulnerable without full use of a right arm,” Garret added.

  Ritcherd fired a defensive glare toward Garret. But he was apparently unaffected as he added, “What I mean is, could you shoot a gun or use a sword if you had to?”

  “I doubt it,” Ritcherd replied, his tone bitter.

  “It’s not very smart to be traveling on a ship carrying illegal goods, and not be able to defend yourself.”

  Ritcherd watched Garret closely for a long moment. He was so matter-of-fact that Ritcherd couldn’t possibly disagree or get angry. He wondered now if their former lack of conversation beyond the day they’d met had been to allow Ritcherd to become comfortable enough around him that sensitive issues could be broached. Whatever his motives might be, Ritcherd had no choice but to say, “There’s not a lot to be done about that, now is there.”

  “That all depends on how you look at it,” Garret smiled in a familiarly devious way. “I’m left-handed, you know.”

  Ritcherd hadn’t even noticed. But as he absorbed what Garret was saying, he felt something flicker inside of him. Still, he said nothing.

  Garret continued. “I’ve got several left-handed firearms. I had them custom made. You’re welcome to use them. And . . . we could have you fencing like a pro before we hit the colonies—if you’re willing.”

  Ritcherd didn’t even have to think about it. The thought of regaining some of the confidence he’d lost in that respect seemed like an answer to a prayer that he’d never even cared to voice. On top of that, the prospect of having something to fill his time and give purpose to his empty hours made Garret’s offer doubly inviting.

  “I’m willing,” he said. “The question is, are you—”

  “Yo ho ho,” George shouted as the door of the cabin flew open without warning. It closed just as quickly and he was gone.

  “I’ll ’ave yer ’ead for that one!” Garret shouted.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” George called back as his voice trailed down the hallway.

  “Wretched sailors,” Garret mumbled under his breath, but Ritcherd could see the subtle smirk teasing at the corners of his mouth. “You were saying?”

  “I was just wondering if you’re up to the task.”

  Garret grinned. “It would be more of a pleasure than you could possibly imagine.”

  Ritcherd chuckled. “You’re in one of those humble-the-aristocrat moods.”

  Garret came to his feet. “At least I don’t shoot them—not the ones who are on my side, at least.”

  Toget
her they laughed and Ritcherd thought that beyond the continual heartache he felt in longing for Kyrah, things were looking up.