Feeling suddenly lonely, Ann wished for someone to talk to. She looked for her mother but remembered she had taken to helping the cook. Two days of the horrid meals and her mother had declared she would assist the cook for the rest of the voyage. Unfortunately, Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen either. Ann would have even enjoyed Brother Wheatley’s company, had he been present, but she didn’t recognize any of the Saints that stood on the deck.
With nothing else to do, Ann put her back against the rail and watched the men in the middle of the ship. From what she could tell, the loud noise she’d heard last night—the one that’d made Mr. Boyd hurry to the deck again—had been a sail ripping in half. One of the biggest sails on the mainmast, though as she looked at them now, there were so many sails she couldn’t count them all.
It wasn’t the first time she’d had the thought that for so many passengers, and so many sails and masts and ropes, there weren’t very many sailors. She supposed if there was one thing good about these men, it was their industry. It was actually quite interesting to watch them work.
“Are you determined to find a fault in my sailors?”
The voice came from beside her, and she recognized the timbre immediately, though it was much less callous than yesterday.
“Pardon me?” She raised her eyebrows and didn’t give him the courtesy of looking him in the face.
“My men. You are the only person on this ship that isn’t moving toward the forecastle and looking toward the ocean.”
“Oh,” she said, without moving. She wasn’t sure why this man, of all people, had decided to talk to her again. He had yelled at her and dumped water all over her in the process. That did not merit a follow-up conversation at all.
“Am I missing something?”
“Just ... Ireland.”
All the resolution she had not to look to the forecastle failed, and she whipped her head toward the front of the ship where, indeed, a crowd had gathered.
“There,” he pointed.
Sheer, greenish cliffs rose in the distance, the bottoms blazing almost an emerald color and the tops studded with brown.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, trying to keep the awe from her voice.
“It is, and more beautiful in person.”
When he didn’t move, she felt she must say something. “You’ve been there? I thought you were American ...”
“I am American,” he said through a proud, smug smile, “but I have visited Ireland.” He felt the slack of one of the sail lines near him as he spoke. “A good friend of mine is Irish and invited me home not too long ago.”
He caught the eye of a sailor near him, and they exchanged a look, followed by a wink.
There was more to the story, then. Was he boasting about something they’d talked about before? A thought struck her: Perhaps it was a lady who invited him to Ireland.
She sighed. So not only was he rude and fire-tempered, but he was also flaunting a fling with a woman.
“I must be going,” said Ann, further annoyed by his gauche comment. Without looking back, or responding any more, she walked to the front of the boat to join the other passengers.
Even this large ship sometimes proved too small to escape certain people.
Chapter 6
March 1, 1854
8 days at sea
As he patrolled the decka few days later, Will couldn’t help thinking about that blasted woman who had entered his thoughts—again. Granted, theywereon a ship, and one couldn’t exactly run away from anyone without being eaten by sharks, but how was it that he always seemed to notice this particular passenger’s whereabouts? If he wasn’t mistaken, a few minutes ago she came out from the cabins under the poop deck. Which meant her berth was only a few doors down from his.
He remembered the captain’s adage. There was to be no distraction by a young woman. Not that one so pesky—and intriguingly articulate—would distract him.
He still didn’t know her name. That was for the best.
He stood at his early morning watch, and the lull of calm water on the horizon allowed his thoughts to continue. Something had snapped inside him during the storm four days ago. Flashbacks of his time in Antigua’s waters kept surfacing during random moments, and especially behind closed eyelids at night. He thought he’d buried those memories deep enough. He’d decided to come back to sea, after all. But for some reason, on this voyage he couldn’t forget them. The terrible memories had turned him into a different person the other night.
What exactly had he said to her during the storm? He remembered barking at her, though tension had run through his veins so swiftly he didn’t remember all that transpired, other than he’d saved Scotty and the sail and there hadn’t been any injuries with ropes or the broken mizzenmast, thank heaven.
