The Captain of Her Heart

  * * * * *

   

  Kyrah awoke to a room filled with sunlight, a stark contrast to the storm and darkness that had accompanied her labor. A quick glance showed no signs of the previous night’s ordeal. Attempting to move, she felt every muscle in her body protest. But her sore muscles were no match for the throbbing ache that made it clear she had indeed given birth. She withstood the soreness enough to turn and see her newborn daughter lying close to her, sleeping with her fist near her mouth. The baby had been bathed and wrapped tightly in a blanket. Kyrah ran her fingers lightly over the head of wispy blonde hair, and touched the soft round cheeks, feeling a surge of joy. The love she felt for this child was beyond her own comprehension. The circumstances she had been born into were far from ideal, and Kyrah would not have chosen this path for herself or her child. Mistakes had been made and the price had been high. But Kyrah could not—and would not—regret the existence of this child. Every bit of pain she had suffered had been worth it. And she thanked God for allowing her baby to make it safely into this world.

  The baby grunted and wiggled, prompting Kyrah to laugh. It was uncanny, but even now as she slept with her chubby, wrinkled face pressed against the bed, Kyrah could see a resemblance to Ritcherd.

  Ritcherd. Kyrah drew a deep sigh of relief just to think of him. He had found her at last! The months she’d been without him had seemed eternal. But that was behind them now. They were together. And for the moment, that was enough.

  Kyrah lay for a long while, content to relish her daughter’s nearness. The baby gradually came awake and demanded to be fed. Using only her instincts, she guided the baby to her breast, relieved to see that she seemed to know what to do, even if Kyrah didn’t. While the baby nursed, the silence of the house began to feel eerie.

  “Ritcherd?” she called, feeling suddenly panicked. The night had been so dreamlike, with horrid images of consuming, relentless pain. Had he really been here? Or had she just been hallucinating? Had she wanted so badly for him to be with her that she’d conjured him up in her imagination? “Ritcherd!” she cried, and her voice trembled. The baby paid no mind. “Ritcherd!” she screamed, wishing she was capable of getting out of bed to find him.

  Her heart beat quickly when she heard footsteps close by. A moment later he appeared in the doorway, his brow creased with worry. He’d obviously been asleep. “What is it?” he asked, moving toward the bed. Kyrah blew out a long breath of relief and discreetly eased the sheet up to maintain her modesty.

  “Are you all right?” He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a kiss to one cheek, then the other.

  “I was afraid it had been a dream . . . that I’d only imagined your being here.”

  “It wasn’t a dream,” he chuckled softly.

  “You won’t leave,” she said.

  “Never,” he murmured. “I will never leave you alone again.”

  Kyrah sighed at his promise and peered beneath the sheet to see the baby still nursing furiously. “Is she all right?” Ritcherd asked.

  Kyrah nodded. “She’s eating.”

  Ritcherd’s expression revealed his confusion, followed by his enlightenment once he’d figured it out. “Of course,” he said. “Is there anything I can get you? Daisy went home to get some rest and then to put in a shift at work. I assured her I could take care of you.”

  “I’m fine for the moment,” she said.

  “Are you in much pain?” he asked.

  “Only if I move,” she said and smiled. “Just . . . let me look at you.” She reached a hand up to touch his face, attempting to reacquaint herself with him now that she wasn’t distracted by being in labor. He’d obviously adjusted his appearance in order to fit in with the men he’d been sailing with. She pressed a hand through his downy blond hair, tied back as usual in a fashionable ponytail, though it was unusually disheveled, as if he’d intentionally meant to appear scruffy. Having just gotten out of bed, his hair didn’t appear any less mussed than when she’d seen him upon his arrival the previous evening. She fingered the little gold ring hanging in his earlobe and wondered what he’d gone through in order to find her. She knew he had become close to Captain Garret, a man she’d been led to in her search for passage back to England. Garret had been instrumental in bringing them back together, but there was so much she didn’t understand—so much she wanted to ask him, to tell him. But for the moment she was content to just bask in his presence.

  “So,” she said, searching for a topic that wasn’t too close to any sore points, “you became a pirate.”

  “Aye,” he said with a perfect sailor’s drawl, “that I did.”

  Kyrah giggled until she realized it hurt. “I know now that you were sailing with Captain Garret. But isn’t he a privateer?”

  “Shh!” he whispered and chuckled. “That’s a secret.”

  “I see,” she said, and the conversation came to a halt when the baby needed to be burped.

  Ritcherd watched Kyrah with the baby and felt a whirlwind of emotions. Not knowing where to begin to sort them out, he went to the kitchen in search of something to eat. He figured Kyrah had to be at least as hungry as he was. He found a note from Daisy that guided him to some cold beef, cheese, bread and butter. He loaded a tray and took it to the bedroom, where the baby had fallen back to sleep. Kyrah grimaced when she tried to sit up and he quickly set the tray aside to try and help her. She took hold of his arms as he lifted her to a sitting position. When she was situated, their eyes met. Everything he wanted to say became dammed up behind the knot in his throat. All he could do was press a kiss to her brow and murmur quietly, “I missed you so much.”

  He heard her whimper and felt her grip tighten on his arms. Her emotion prompted him to say, “Tell me what happened, Kyrah.” Images assaulted him of what Daisy had told him. He wanted so desperately to know what had happened, but he had to remember his promise to Daisy. It would be better for all of them if Kyrah told him in her own time. “I know it’s difficult,” he said gently, “but we have to talk.” Their eyes met and he insisted quietly, “Please . . . tell me everything.”

  Kyrah sighed and laid her head against his shoulder. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “At the beginning,” he said, hoping that eventually they would reach what he already knew. “The last time I saw you, you were going to the station with the constable.”

  He felt a shudder move through her and tightened his embrace. “I have to know,” he whispered. “The real hell for me all this time has been worrying and fearing for you. I know it’s difficult, but we have to talk about it. I have to know what happened.”

  “All right,” she said. “But you go first. I want to know how you found me. But first, tell me what happened . . . after I was arrested.”

  Ritcherd shuddered himself at the memory. He remembered going to bed that night, filled with determination that the ordeal would be over the following day. He woke up with a hangover from the drugs that had been put into his cocoa and the nightmare had begun. Not knowing how to express his feelings about what had happened, he said what he’d thought a million times since that day. “I should never have let you leave with him. We should have left the country the first time you suggested it. You can’t imagine how many times I’ve longed to go back and live those days over again.”

  “I think I can,” she said with a sadness that made it evident she knew exactly how he felt. “But we’re together now . . . and we can’t change what’s happened. We have to start over.”

  “Yes,” he said, brushing his lips over her brow, “we do. And we will.”

  “Tell me what happened,” she said. “How did you know . . . where I’d gone?”

  Ritcherd didn’t want to talk about it, but he could never expect her to open up if he didn’t do the same. “The constable told me you’d been found guilty and deported. I nearly killed him right then and there. But he wouldn’t tell me anything else. I went to the pier. I asked at least a hundred people. Nobody knew anything. Then I
went home and wanted to kill my mother.”

  Kyrah lifted her head to look into his eyes. She knew elements of his mother’s motives that she’d learned from Peter Westman. But she had no idea how much Ritcherd knew. In a cautious voice she asked, “Are you certain she was responsible?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “She drugged my drink so I’d sleep deep and late—which I did. And when I—”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” she interrupted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was taken to the ship in the middle of the night.” His brow furrowed and she went on. “The constable came to get me . . . we rode in a carriage with this horrible-looking man, and . . . when I realized he was a sailor, I panicked. I tried to get out, but . . . well . . . I woke up locked in a cabin on the ship, with blood in my hair.”

  Ritcherd recalled his friend George telling him he’d been at the pier all night, and he’d seen no women going aboard the Libertatia. He was about to ask how she might have gotten on board when she added, “I think they hauled me on in a burlap sack. It was there with me, and my clothes were covered with it.” Her eyes became distant, almost glazed. “I screamed and beat on the door for hours, then these two . . . horrible men . . . came in and . . .” Ritcherd went tense, fearing the worst; something worse than what Daisy had told him. “They held me down and poured this awful stuff down my throat. They kept me drugged for about a week, as close as I could figure. By then I didn’t have the strength to protest.”

  Hearing her recount a portion of what Daisy had told him, Ritcherd instinctively wrapped his arms more tightly around her, pressing his face to her throat. The endless hours he’d spent wondering what might have been happening to her came back to him now, tightening his stomach into familiar knots. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “Oh, Kyrah. I’m so sorry.”

  Now that she had started, Kyrah felt the need to get it out and get it over with. She sighed and continued. “They kept me locked in the cabin for weeks. The only person I saw was the cabin boy who brought my meals, but he didn’t talk much beyond warning me to stay quiet. Then one day . . . out of the blue . . . Peter Westman came in and . . .”

  “What did he do?” Ritcherd demanded when she hesitated.

  “He was actually very kind to me,” she said, almost defending him—or perhaps herself. She dreaded telling Ritcherd the whole story concerning Peter. For now, she stuck to what had happened on the ship. “He told me he’d just discovered that I was aboard, and he’d convinced the captain to set me free. He gave me the key to my cabin and—”

  “That lying snake,” Ritcherd snarled. “He knew you’d be on that ship. I’d wager a great deal that he had a hand in putting you there.”

  “Well, it’s easy to look back now and realize that,” she said, and he wondered what else had happened. “But at the time, he gave me what I desperately needed. Of course, he probably planned it that way. I was so starved for fresh air and companionship that even Peter Westman was a pleasant diversion.”

  Ritcherd took a deep breath and forced himself to stay calm. The thought of her being anywhere near that man made his blood boil. But she was talking and he didn’t want her to stop. He waited patiently for her to go on.

  “I hardly dared go out without him. The crew were all a despicable-looking bunch. They even smelled bad. And I didn’t like the way they looked at me. One night, one of them forced his way into my cabin and . . .” She hesitated and trembled.

  “What?” he pressed.

  “I thought I was doomed, but . . . Peter killed him. No one bothered me after that.”

  A memory teased at Ritcherd, but it took him a minute to put it together. “That filthy degenerate,” he growled. “Do you suppose that’s what gave him the idea to set it up the second time?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. She knew that it had happened again, here in Hedgeton, where Peter had continued showing up. He had saved her from two men who had dragged her into an alley. But how did Ritcherd know that?

  “A man approached me in the tavern,” he said. “He’d heard I was looking for information, and he said he’d been hired to make it appear that he and his buddy were going to have their way with you, then the man who hired them showed up to make himself a hero.”

  “Good heavens!” Kyrah sucked in her breath, recalling what that incident had spurred her to do. But she couldn’t talk about that—not yet.

  “Go on,” Ritcherd said. “What happened next?”

  “Well . . . it was about that time I figured out I was pregnant.”

  Ritcherd sighed. His regret on that count was so deep that he couldn’t begin to know what to say. He just held her hand and listened.

  “Peter became so thoroughly agreeable that I wondered if I was going mad. He told me he was concerned about my being able to make it alone once we arrived, but when we came into port, he left without me. Fortunately, I had the earrings and necklace you gave me.” She touched his face and interjected, “You can’t know how grateful I was to have them. You took care of me, Ritcherd, even though you weren’t here. I sold the earrings and had enough money to get everything I needed and pay for two months’ rent—plus some cash to get by. I didn’t want to sell them, but—”

  “It’s all right, Kyrah. I’m grateful you had them, too.” He recalled the careful thought he’d put into purchasing the diamond jewelry for her, and felt somehow humbled to see the purpose it had served. “They’re replaceable.”

  “So . . . I settled in, and started watching for you at the pier. I tried to get passage back to England, but very few ships were going there, and the one I found refused to take a woman on board.”

  Kyrah stopped talking, not wanting to get into the rest of the story—not yet. Instead she said, “Let’s eat. I must confess I’m famished.”

  They shared their simple meal, mostly in silence while Ritcherd attempted to accept everything she’d just told him and fit it into what had been happening to him. He wondered how long it might take to bring them around to the rest of what Daisy had told him. Be patient, he reminded himself.

  When they’d both had plenty to eat, Ritcherd scooted a chair close to the bed and held her hand. He was wondering how to open the subject again when she said, “Now it’s your turn. Tell me how you found me. Did your mother know where I’d gone?”

  “If she did, she wouldn’t tell me. But she actually admitted—in a roundabout way—that she was responsible.”

  “What did she say?” Kyrah asked, finding it difficult to believe. She knew Jeanette Buchanan was behind her deportation, but she couldn’t imagine her admitting it.

  “I confronted her. She tried to deny it. But when she got angry, she said that someday I would thank her for sending you away.”

  Kyrah gasped. “She really said that?”

  “She did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well,” he drawled, “I’m ashamed to admit that I tore apart her china closet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I broke the doors with a fire poker and broke every single piece of china. I threw the dishes at the wall, on the floor. I screamed and raged. And then I left.” His voice became hollow and bitter. “I sat at the pier half the night crying. I had no idea where you’d gone, or where to begin looking for you. I hurt so badly that I just wanted to die. I went home and got so drunk that I didn’t even make it to bed.”

  Kyrah watched him become distant. The pain in his expression was so obvious that tears came to her eyes. How could she ever tell him what his anguish meant to her? This tangible evidence of his love and commitment moved her deeply. When he said nothing for a few minutes, she finally said, “But you found me. If you didn’t know where I’d gone, then . . .”

  “That’s the miracle.” He touched her face and smiled. “Do you remember how George kept wanting to talk to me?” George had been a casual friend of Ritcherd’s from childhood, mostly due to their fathers’ friendship and common investments.
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  “I vaguely recall your mentioning it.”

  “I’d just come home from the colonies, and I was rather preoccupied with you, as you well remember.” They exchanged a smile, and she thought how nice it was to share pleasant memories with him.

  “I managed to keep avoiding him, certain that whatever he wanted couldn’t be that important.” He smiled again. “When I woke up with a hangover, he was there, insisting that I listen to what he had to say. As it turned out, he wanted me to finance a ship. He’d joined a band of privateers who were smuggling goods to the colonists. Their ship had been shot down, their resources gone dry. And he was actually asking me to buy a ship and give it to him.” Ritcherd laughed softly, freshly amazed at the irony of the situation. “While I was thinking it through, he just happened to mention that he’d been at the pier the night you were deported. He hadn’t seen any women go aboard, but he did know it was the Libertatia, and he knew it was headed to the colonies. So I bought the ship on the condition that I could sail with them.”

  “The Phoenix,” she said.

  “Yes, the Phoenix.”

  “When I saw it the first time, it reminded me of you,” she told him, recalling how she’d seen it resting at the pier after she’d arranged for her passage with Captain Garret. She’d always had a deep fascination with birds. As a child she had made up stories about them, and in her imagination, Ritcherd had always seemed like the greatest bird of all. Through their months of separation, she had often imagined him soaring over the sea, coming to find her and rescue her. She knew it was silly in a way. But when she had seen the depiction of the great mythical bird painted on the hull of the ship, it had made her think of Ritcherd. She had to ask, “Is that a coincidence? The name, I mean?”

  “I christened the Phoenix myself,” he said. “The ship had never sailed, so it had never been named. I stopped at the church ruins a couple of days before we were to set sail. With all the time we’d spent there together in our childhood, I felt somehow closer to you there. I was praying that I could find you, that you would be kept safe and well . . . I saw this bird light in the window, with the sun behind it. The image stayed in my mind, and it made me think of the myth of the phoenix. So, that’s the name I chose.”

  “Well, it’s perfect,” she said.

  “Yes, I think so,” he agreed. “I often wished I could fly; I knew I could find you if I could fly.”

  “But you did find me.”

  “Yes,” he said sadly, “but not soon enough.” Silence settled around them as they came to a difficult point that Kyrah felt certain he didn’t want to discuss any more than she did. She relaxed against the pillows behind her and he said, “You must be tired.”

  “I am, yes,” she admitted. “It was a long night.”

  Ritcherd helped her get comfortable before she asked, “What did you tell my mother?”

  Ritcherd sighed and sat back down long enough to say, “I told her everything I knew. I made certain that her needs would be taken care of before I left, and I promised her that I would find you and bring you home.”

  “I’ve worried about her so much,” Kyrah admitted.

  He touched her face. “I know. I have, too. But I made certain she would be well cared for, and we’ll be with her soon enough. You need to sleep while the baby does,” he said and left her to rest.

  Ritcherd walked out into the yard where he could see the ocean just beyond a few scattered houses. He thought of the Phoenix and wondered where it was. They’d left port in a hurry when rumor had come that the redcoats would soon be arriving. Was the crew safe and well? And Captain Garret? Ritcherd missed his friend’s insight and wisdom—something he could have used at the moment.

  Ritcherd thought of the mythical phoenix painted on the hull of his ship. In some formless way, he related to the great bird. His youth had been filled with confidence and a belief that his life would always be good. And Kyrah had always been a part of that belief. Her fascination with birds and her love for him had always made him feel as if he could fly, as if he could take on the world and conquer anything that might stand in his way. But war and death and the treachery of others had eaten away at his confidence. How could he fly when he couldn’t even allow himself to feel the reality of where his life had come? He felt broken and battered from the inside out. And he knew that what Kyrah had been through was far worse. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of all she had suffered. And he knew he was very much to blame. But where could he begin to undo all that had been done? How could he ever make up to her all that had happened as a result of his foolishness? He closed his eyes against the picture of their circumstances, but the pain only intensified.

  “Please God,” he murmured into the breeze coming off the sea. “Please . . . give me strength. Forgive me for all I’ve taken from her. Guide me to the paths I must follow to help her through this.” He lifted his face toward the sky and added, “Please . . . help me fly again.” He knew it sounded foolish. But he believed that if God knew his heart, He would understand.

  Ritcherd stood for a long while, willing his plea heavenward, attempting to feel whatever glimmer of hope might be given him in return. His thoughts turned to the image of Kyrah and the baby sleeping contentedly, side by side. Gratitude surged through him, overflowing in the tears that trickled down his face and quickly dried in the breeze. He inhaled the aroma of the sea once more and went back into the house. He didn’t have any definite answers, but he had the perspective he needed to keep going. They were together—the three of them. And together they would stay.