Free Captain of My Heart by Danelle Harmon

doin’ to yer stomach? Ye’re makin’ yerself sick o’er
this. Cap’n’s da was English, aye, but he’s got the luck of his
Irish ma to see to him, and it’s never failed him yet.”
    Dalby bristled. “The only Irish luck I see
here is yours. With the captain dead and gone, you’re in
command now. You tell me who’s the lucky one!”
    Fortunately for Dalby, Liam’s temper was not
easily ignited, for Liam was twice as big, thrice as strong—and
half his age. He merely smiled, belched in happy contentment, and
picked up his fiddle. “An’ would ye mind a-tellin’ me just what it
is I’m supposed t’ command, Dalb?”
    Dalby’s mouth snapped shut. It would be a
while before Annabel was seaworthy again—a long while. And
the magnificent schooner that had been the captain’s dream . . .
her drafts had died with her creator. Dalby turned his face away to
hide the emotion in his eyes.
    Liam was an astute man, even with a quart of
ale swimming in his belly. “Here now, Dalb,” he said, laying a big,
square hand across the little sailmaker’s bony arm. “There’s not a
soul on earth who cares for the cap’n more than I do. If I thought
he was dead an’ gone, d’ye think I’d be a-sittin’ here drinkin’
away his memory? God Almighty! Why, I’ll bet ye my share o’ th’
next prize that any minute now, that door yonder’ll swing open and
our Brendan himself’ll come strollin’ in—”
    As if on cue, the door did swing open
and a tall figure stood silhouetted in the hot sunlight.
    “Captain!” Dalby cried, lunging to his
feet.
    But it was not their gallant young commander
who stood there, but a stranger with a freckle-dusted face that
looked as if it would stand little, if any, sun, and unruly red
hair curling out from beneath a floppy felt hat. There was no doubt
that he was a seaman; probably an officer if not a captain, judging
by the way he carried himself and rocked back on his heels. His
eyes, magnified by spectacles that gave him an almost scholarly
appearance, swept the crowd, crinkling in a smile as they perused
each of the serving wenches. Yet in true Yankee style, he had no
pretense—his jacket of pilot cloth had seen better days, and a
strip of leather belted a pair of trousers rolled up to display
white hose and scuffed, buckled shoes.
    Forgetting his stomach, Dalby squinted
through the smoky air and tried not to stare, for the man looked
awfully familiar.
    The newcomer took off his hat, raked a hand
through his wild red locks, and grinned broadly as the serving
wench whom Keefe and Reilly had been arguing over for the better
part of the last hour flung herself into his arms with a squeal of
glee. He caught her, kissed her full on the lips, and set her down,
where she clung to his arm like a barnacle.
    “The nerve of him! We’ve been sitting here
for a bloody hour, and he comes in here, just like that, and draws
her in like a fish on a line.”
    “Says a lot for your charms, Amos.”
    “Be damned to ye, Fergus!”
    The serving wench, blushing hotly and
giggling under the Yankee’s attention, nodded and pointed toward
their table. They all watched as he strode purposefully toward
them.
    “Ahoy, there,” Liam drawled, leaning back in
his chair and setting his fiddle across his knees. “Have a seat an’
join us for a mug or two.”
    Matthew Ashton perused this odd group, his
eyes lingering on the grumpy little man whose hand was pressed to
his gut as though he were ill. He wondered briefly what was wrong
with him to make him so silent and surly when his mates were
obviously well into their cups. “Much obliged,” he said, accepting
both the chair that the burly Irishman slid toward him and the ale
Belinda set beneath his nose. Calling for another round for those
around the table, Matt blew the foam from his ale and looked at
each of the strangers over the rim of his mug. They were all
staring at him. “You the crew from the sloop Annabel ?”
    “Part of it,” the big