“I’ll pay what it takes for the victuals,” he said. A lot of skippers cut corners by laying in inferior food in skimpy quantities for their sailors. Ryan knew better than to test their loyalty by taxing their stomachs. “A well-fed sailor is a happy sailor.”
“As you say, skipper. You’ll hear no back-slack from a crew that’s got its mouth stuffed with ladyfingers.” He winked, looking wise and world-weary at the same time.
Ryan moved on, though he thought about Ralph Izard for a moment. He liked the chief mate; Izard was his prime minister, boatswain, sailing-master and quartermaster all at once, and he excelled at what he did.
And he alone knew what no one else had guessed.
Ryan’s first record-breaking voyage had been a fluke.
It wasn’t his skill as a skipper that had brought the Swan to harbor so profitably, but a combination of good weather and blind beginner’s luck. Izard was well aware of this. He had never spoken of it, though the knowledge always hung between him and Ryan—unuttered yet undeniable.
He climbed the companion stair to the foredeck. A startling sight greeted him.
Isadora Peabody bent over a pair of deck chairs, tucking an olive-colored blanket around his mother and Fayette. The two women looked wasted and wan, still miserable with the sea sickness. Yet, finally, after Ryan had tried for days to coax them from their beds, they’d come on deck.
Isadora appeared different today. What was left of her hair was tied back carelessly with a ribbon, a few curls escaping to twine around her face. The sun, increasingly strong as they traveled farther and farther south, brought out a warm gold color in some of the strands. Her stiff brown dress appeared less cumbersome. Maybe she’d heeded his advice and left off a couple of those petticoats.
He knew he wouldn’t be asking her.
He stepped onto the deck, moving past the chicken coop. “Morning, ladies.”
Isadora straightened, her face hardening to a mask of indifference.
He scowled at her in annoyance. He wanted to ask her if she still wanted to be stuck to the windlass by her hair. God knew she deserved it.
“Hello, Ryan,” his mother said.
“Mama.” He bent and kissed Lily’s cheek. “It’s good to see you both out in the air.”
“Isadora convinced us. Since we couldn’t feel much worse, we agreed to sit on deck for a while.”
“I’ll see if your tea is ready,” Isadora said, moving past Ryan.
He caught a whiff of the soap she used—something clean and herbal—and he didn’t realize he was staring after her until his mother said, “So what exactly did you do to the poor girl?”
“What makes you think I did anything at all? Did she tell you—”
“She didn’t say a word, Ryan. I honestly don’t think she’s the sort of lady to tell tales out of school.”
Fayette chuckled knowingly. “Didn’t have to say a thing. But she shows up wearing parlor scuffs and her hair badly shorn, and we guessed you had something to do with it.”
Ryan sat on a coil of rope and took out the Turk’s head he was braiding, adding to the ornamental knot strand by strand. “She’s a babe in arms when it comes to sailing. Stumbled around on her high heels and got her hair caught in the apparatus.” He blew out his breath in exasperation. “We had…words.”
Lily shook her head. “Oh, Ryan.”
Something deep inside him recoiled at her tone of voice. He’d heard it all his life. “Oh, Ryan” stood for a wealth of defects and disappointments. Each and every one of them richly deserved. Some things would never change. She would be “Oh, Ryan-ing” him until he was an old man.
“You of all people know my imperfections, Mama,” he said. “Did you think I was taking Miss Peabody on a pleasure cruise?”
Lily studied him solemnly, her expression loving yet wary. “It could be, you know.”
“A pleasure cruise?” He snorted. “Such a thing as pleasure has been outlawed in Boston.”
“According to the navigation log, we are presently a very long way from Boston,” Isadora said, arriving with a wooden tray.
Ryan stood, chagrined that she had overheard his comment. “And how far are we from pleasure?” he couldn’t resist asking.
“Everything was very pleasant indeed,” she said, “until a few moments ago.” She handed Lily and Fayette each a thick china mug. “I added a touch of lemon and honey. If that agrees with you, we’ll try some broth and bread later.”
He glared at her, but instead of feeling contempt, he caught himself wondering what she was like under all that black-and-brown armor. Did her impressive height come from long legs? Were her breasts full and round, crested with dusky rose peaks? Was her skin soft and smooth to the touch…? Christ. He’d been too long at sea.
“I hope you find the morning…pleasant, ladies,” Ryan said, exaggerating his drawl and his formal bow. “For me, duty calls.”
A few days later, below the jibboom, he found that someone had repaired the rigging. He picked up the broad web of rope, noting the precision of the knots.
“I’ll finish that now,” Isadora said.
Wordlessly, he handed it to her. Damn. The woman was like a bad rash. She wouldn’t go away. Everywhere he turned, he nearly collided with her.
“Luigi showed me how to do the mending,” she explained, though Ryan hadn’t asked.
“It’s a useful skill,” he admitted. What he didn’t admit was that he had noticed her growing camaraderie with each member of the crew. Each one seemed drawn to her, if not charmed by her then at least engaged enough by her natural curiosity to share something with her—a skill, a tidbit of sea lore, a useful turn of phrase. He didn’t know why this was so, but it was. Probably because he was as small-minded and immature as his mother claimed.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you for looking after my mother and Fayette.”
For the first time in days, she regarded him directly. She had nice eyes, he realized, now that they weren’t peering over the unneeded thick-lensed spectacles. The color shifted between warm brown and vibrant green.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d admired a woman’s irises.
“It’s my pleasure to look after them,” Isadora said.
She was that sort of person, he realized. One who understood human need and derived satisfaction from tending to it. One who would make a wonderful mother.
A scowl darkened his brow. She had set her cap for Chad Easterbrook, who had no idea what sort of mother she would make. He had no idea what sort of person she was, for that matter.
“Captain Calhoun?” she said.
“Since I’ve decided to address you as Isadora, I think you should call me Ryan,” he said.
“It won’t matter. Because what I was going to say is that it’s clear we don’t get along.” Her hands tightened on the rope. “I bullied my way onto your ship and I refuse to be sorry for that. You, in turn, have been bullying me since we set sail, and you’re not sorry, either.”
“When you state it that way—”
“I think it would be better for all concerned if you and I simply stayed out of one another’s way, don’t you?”
For some reason, he chose that particular moment to remember the way he’d touched her in the galley. She’d struck him as so alone and bereft