Free Mystic Memories by Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz Page A

remembered he had not informed Keoni that the woman would dine alone. How had the thought slipped his mind as he’d stood and watched the entire preparation? He was not one to forget such simple matters. But then, he was also not one to allow errant thoughts of beautiful widows to interfere with his duties. Yet he could not seem to shake her from his mind.
    “I should have told you that I have given my quarters over to our guest. Give her only the amount of food she may need, leave the rest here.”
    “What about you and the mates?” Both of them knew neither he nor Mr. Bellows and the second mate would take their meals with the crew in the forecastle.
    “A table in the between decks will be suitable.”
    Keoni shook his head. “Not for you.”
    “What do you mean, not for me? I am the captain here.”
    “And you will dine at the captain’s table.” The cook picked up the heavily laden platter as the ship’s steward arrived on silent feet, instinctively on time. Jimmy was a red-haired, freckle-faced Irish lad of sixteen, eager to please and efficient as hell. The young man held out his hands to take the food from Keoni, but the cook shook his head. “This time I will do the honors.”
    The steward glanced at Blake for direction. “Sir?”
    “Humor him, James. He has more knives than we do.”
    “Aye-aye. Captain,” he answered, glancing nervously at the array of sharpened blades on the wood counter before exiting the galley.
    The arrogant Kanaka appeared pleased with himself as he carried the food out the door. Passing Blake, he murmured, “You no come with me, you no eat. She can’t kick you out of your very own cabin.”
    “She didn’t kick me out. I offered.”
    “You think so?”
    “I know so!”
    “That’s a haole woman for you. They have you dancing on the end of a string before you know which end is up. Don’t dance to her tune, Kaikaina .”
    “I am not dancing,” insisted Blake, following the aroma of the food.
    Sometimes he wondered if it was worth having such a deep friendship that was so damnably unconventional by ship’s standards. Despite his respected authority over the rest of his men, he could not change his obstinate Island brother.
    Keoni continued to tease in his broken dialect. “Maybe you not dancing . . . yet. But maybe you tapping your toes to da music. Think so?”
    “I’m not tapping my toes and there is no music.”
    The Kanaka knocked on the cabin door, then winked at Blake. “It is an ancient chant, aikane . As old as the earth itself.”
     
     
     

 
    Chapter 5
    T he door opened without so much as a single question of who might be standing outside. It could have been anyone, Blake silently fumed. Mrs. Edwards needed to be more careful, even in the relative safety of his own ship. A woman could never be too cautious.
    He nodded in greeting, “Mrs. Edwards.”
    “Captain Masters . . .” acknowledged the widow, stepping aside to allow the two men to enter.
    In the lantern light, he saw she had changed into the clean clothing, though it had been necessary to roll up the cuffs of both the trousers and the shirt. She was also barefoot, and quite comfortable to be so, it seemed. For a lady who had gone through the battering of ship and sea, she appeared to be holding up quite well, much better than he would have guessed. What kind of life had she led that could produce such a strong female—in body as well as mind?
    Once again he found himself doubting her story of her past. She did not seem to fit the typical mold of a docile and domesticated wife, not that he thought all women could claim those attributes.
    Keoni stepped around Blake, who had not found the momentum to move from the doorway. “Dancing fool,” murmured the cook under his breath for the benefit of his captain.
    “Thank you . . . Kay-oh-nee, isn’t it?” The woman shaped her lips around each syllable of the name, drawing Blake’s attention to her mouth. A sudden desire to kiss her swept through