Kat Martin - Night Secrets

Contents:

Chapter 1

March 1803

N ight was always theworst. Brandy stared out through the wavy glass panes that distorted thedarkness, saw only her weary reflection, and wondered how much longer she couldstand it.

As far back as she could remember, every day of hernineteen years, Brianne Winters had worked from the first gray hint of dawntill blackness curtained the mullioned windows of the White Horse Tavern.

"Brandy, girl, you had better stop daydreamin'and get back to work. Your papa will be back any minute and there's customerswith empty tankards out there." Her best friend, Florence Moody, aslender, dark-haired woman six years older than Brandy, stood at the kitchendoor, her thin face nearly obscured by steam. They had worked together so long,Flo seemed more a mother or an older sister than merely a friend.

Brandy smiled. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be goneso long. Old Salty Johnson is back in port. He was telling me about his tripdown from Halifax.I guess they ran into some weather and one of the masts went down. Nearly sankthe blasted ship."

Flo wiped her hands on the apron tied over her skirt. "OldSalty always could tell a tale. Don't worry yourself about it. We just nowstarted getting busy. The Fairwind'sdropped anchor and the crew has begun driftin' in. They'll be a handfultonight, seein' as they been at sea for nigh on two months."

Brandy groaned as she walked out of the kitchen andinto the smoky, dimly lit taproom. "I swear Dalton's crew is the worst of the lot. I don'tlook forward to their arrival." The tavern was nearly a hundred years old,with heavy oak beams and flagstone floors. Pewter sconces lined the walls,casting shadowy candlelight against the smoke-darkened wood. Though her fatherloved the old place, Brandy hated it. It was dingy, she thought, smelled ofstale beer, and the walls were cold and dank.

"They're a rowdy lot," Flo said, "andno mistake. We'll be sportin' bruises from our backsides to our knees comemornin'."

"Not me. I'm sick unto death of these damnablesailors and their pinching and pawing ways. The first man who lays a hand on mewill be feeling the weight of a tankard against the side of his bead."

Flo just laughed. "Your papa won't much likethat. Bad for business. He likes you to keep the sailors happy."

But Brandy didn't really care what her father liked.He certainly didn't care what she liked or wanted. All he cared about was hiswretched tavern and making more money.

"I'm Big Jake Winters," he would say, "ownerof the White Horse, finest tavern on the Charlestonquay." He was always so proud of the place, a legacy he was building forhis son. Only Big Jake never had a son.

In truth, his wife had died giving him his one andonly heir, a petite daughter, with Ellen Winters's same red-gold hair. Nothingat all like the big strapping boy Jake had so desperately wanted. A second wifehad birthed another girl, smaller even than Brandy, and so frail she hadn'tlasted through the first Charlestoncold. Frances Winters died of the yellow fever when Brandy was ten years old,and Big Jake finally resigned himself to what he saw as God's will.

The bitter fact was he would never have a son. Adaughter would have to suffice, but Jake's resentment of the fact hovered likea huge, dark cloud over Brandy's head every minute of every day.

"You went to market this morning, didn't you?"she asked Flo. In a simple brown skirt that showed a bit too much ankle, alace-up stomacher, and a scoop-necked white peasant blouse that exposed thetops of her breaststhe attire of the White Horse serving maidsBrandy leanedover a scarred wooden table to mop up a spilled tankard of ale, her single longbraid sliding over one shoulder.

"Matter of fact, I just got back," Flo said."We ran short of eggs. Picked some up along with some side pork for yourpapa's breakfast."

"So what interesting tidbits of gossip did youhear?"

"Bless meI nearly forgot. I did hear a bit ofnews you'll want to hear."

"Good news, I hope. I could stand a little ofthat for a change."

Flo moved behind the wide plank bar to tighten theloose bung on a cask that had started dripping brandy. "Word is Seahawk'scomin' in. Should be docking anytime now. Cap Ogden down to the lighthouse spotted her offthe point, sailin' in toward the harbor."

Brandy's heart began thudding uncomfortably. Seahawk.Surely not. But her pulse inched up several notches just the same. "Ithought Captain Delaine was headed back to England. I didn't expect we'd beseeing him again for at least a couple more months."

Flo shrugged her shoulders. She was a slender womanwith broad hips and a wide, welcoming smile. "Wouldn't know about that.Cap sounded pretty sure, though. He don't make many mistakes."

Brandy's hand shook faintly. "No no he doesn'tmake many mistakes." Absently, she walked away, her mind on the big,full-rigged ship Seahawk and its handsome owner, Captain Marcus Delaine.Or more accurately, Captain Delaine, Lord Hawksmoor, his newly inherited titleas much a surprise to him as it was to everyone else.

Recalling his lean, dark, slightly arrogant profile,she thought that it probably shouldn't have been. He had always had a presenceabout him. His aristocratic blood was apparent in every gesture, everyself-assured movement. He was born to command and it showed in every line ofhis darkly attractive face, from the high-carved cheekbones to the firm set ofhis well-formed lips.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with narrow hips andnot an ounce of spare flesh over his bones. He was solid and sinewy, his haircoal-black and slightly curly, always a little too long, feathering over thecollar of his perfectly tailored navy blue coat. Marcus Delaine was a man amongmen. His crew knew it and so did Brandy Winters.

Which was why, for as long as she could remember, shehad been a little in love with him.

"Better get movin', girl." Flo nudged hertoward the bar. "Big Jake's comin' down the stairs."

Brandy sighed and nodded, pasted on a smile, and setto work. The afternoon slid past and evening crept in. The taproom had begun tofill up, mostly with Fairwind sailors. Smoke hung in patches above thewide plank bar, burning her lungs with the harsh smell of tobacco. Raucouslaughter drifted into the heavy, age-darkened rafters.

The hours moved sluggishly past, a blur of bawdy jokesand fending off the sailors' roaming hands. God, she hated this place. If theLord would grant her a single wish, it would be escape from the mindlessdrudgery and endless hours of boredom at the White Horse Tavern.

Someday, she thought wistfully. Someday, I'll find away to leave.

The evening wore on. She waited on a table of Britishseamen and found herself enthralled by a story told by a sailor named Boggs. He'dbeen forced into service by an English press gang when he was just a boy.Oddly, over the years, the boy had become a man who loved the sea and its manyadventures. Brandy listened with a sharp pang of envy, wishing as she had ahundred times that she had been born a lad who could run away to sea and seek alife of adventure, instead of being shackled like a prisoner to a dreary futurein the White Horse Tavern.

The hour grew late. It was nearly midnight when Cole Proctor, first mate aboard theFairwind, shoved through the swinging doors with some of his men andwalked into the taproom. Brandy had been up since dawn. Her feet hurt, her eyesburned, and a dull ache stabbed into her lower back. Now, big, burly, loudmouthedCole Proctor was here. Brandy wondered if the night could possibly get anyworse.

Hoping he would take a seat on Flo's side of thetaproom, she slipped silently into the kitchen and peered through a crack inthe door.

"What the devil do you think you're doin'?"Big Jake strolled up, his bushy salt and pepper brows drawn together in ascowl. "We've help enough in the kitchen. Get back out there where yerneeded. There's customers a-waitin' . Get yerself back towork, or I'll be takin' a switch to yer fanny."