Uncharted Hearts

CHAPTER ONE

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Early Summer, 1790

It had taken a fortnight for Mother and me to convince Father to let me sail on a merchant ship. Barely twelve hours after that I finally understood why he’d been against the idea.

He was staring at me with his jaw set, his lips firmly buried in his beard, and his eyes scrunched like when he was overcome with emotion. But more than anything, his arms gave him away: folded tightly over his chest, the fingers tight with pressure, the wool of his coat stretched taut.

The carriage stilled to a halt and he started for the door.

Father.... I placed my hand out to halt him.

Clayton, we’ll be late.

I’ll be all right, you know. I’m not stupid. I’ll take care of myself and come home safe. Please trust that.

His brow pinched in the center, making his eyes appear still more sad. I’d feel better if you’d agree to sail with Master Maxwell.

I sighed, and may have rolled my eyes. He was using my obvious concern of his feelings to convince me to sail on his friend’s boring ship, moving apples and cotton up and down the coast. You agreed I could choose for myself.

He closed his eyes and nodded. I did.

Guilt surged again. He’d always loved me, and as his only child he’d hoped I’d stay home by his side. But I’d spent too many days dreaming of open ocean, and too many nights charting the sky. I wanted to travel, to navigate my own path. I have to do this, Father. Please understand.

He smiled then, a tight, but genuine smile. I do. That I do. He patted my hand and opened the carriage door, stepping out onto the street before the docks.

It was as if I were seeing it all with new eyes, each ship appeared as an opportunity, a passage to new and exciting worlds. One was a merchant ship with a foreign captain, the men speaking to each other so quickly I could not identify the language. Another was a stodgy old vessel with a wide, rounded hull, its crew almost silent as they rolled large barrels aboard with gruff efficiency.

My father pulled me along, grasping my elbow. Clayton, we were meant to be there a quarter of an hour ago!

I sighed, but hastened my step, repositioning the strap of my sextant case where it rested across my chest. I’d meet with his friend, but there was no way I wanted to sign on to such a dull vessel.

A pair of hands caught my eye, dangling low. A man leaned over the rail of a small ship; his hands folded loosely, one thumb idly stroking the first knuckle of the other hand. They were strong hands—calloused and rough, partly stained with tar from pulling rope—and the gentle way they rested sent a shiver of desire through me. I’d love to feel those hands running over my flesh, to see them strained and white-knuckled in the throes of passion, to hold—

Good day, Sirs! The owner of the hands spoke.

I glanced up, and my mouth dropped open. The man before me was gorgeous, a perfect match to those hands. His dark brown hair brushed his shoulders, loose and wild, one hank tucked behind his ear. His eyes were warm, brown, and crinkled at the corners in a secret smile. A tiny silver hoop glinted in the lobe of his left ear.

I stammered an idiotic, Go— Good day. And he smiled down at me.

My father groaned, clearly irritated.

The handsome man swung down to the dock, in a move so absurdly theatrical I almost laughed outright, but my attention was immediately captured by the cut of his trousers and the laugh stuck in my throat. Good lord, he was glorious.

Peter Simpson, at your service. He bowed, and I smiled in triumph.

Father would never be openly rude. We’d have to converse. He stuck his hand out, and Father shook it.

When Peter Simpson, who introduced himself as captain of the small schooner The Irish Lady, took my hand, I grasped it with as much passion as I could. My eyes drilled into his, and I thought I saw a flutter of desire there. I’d grown adept at reading such reactions, and hadn’t been wrong yet.

You aren’t by chance a navigator, are you? His gaze traveled over my sextant case, lingering a moment at my hip where it rested before darting to the chart under my left arm.

I nodded.

Father held my elbow, an attempt to discourage me from engaging any further. He’d no doubt noticed my interest.

Peter continued without breaking eye contact with me. I have been interviewing navigators all morning! So many. But alas, none qualified to hold the position of lead pilot. He rolled his eyes and cocked his hip back dramatically.

I tried to keep my expression even, but I was already enamored of him. You’re in need of a navigator, you say?

Peter smiled. Yes. Desperate need. A little wink, sending a shiver through me. Would you like to tour my ship?

I nodded eagerly and followed him up the gangway aboard his small vessel. It was schooner rigged, and one hundred feet long at most. I imagined her swiftness and smiled to myself. What an experience she must be on open sea, sails full.

In the forecastle, Peter laid out maps of The Irish Lady’s recent voyages, showed me the equipment he had on hand, and outlined the duties he expected a navigator to perform. There was a stack of maps and charts, spilling over the edge of their wood, wall-mounted pocket. Several brass quadrants hung nearby, along with Gunter’s scales and standard rulers of several types. On the table was a large bearing compass in a sleek chestnut case, obviously new. And on the left... Is that a Chronometer?

It wasn’t an unusual tool. But it was modern, well made, and clearly worth more than most of the other equipment together. It was also the only thing I did not myself possess.

He smiled and leaned back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. It is! Newest model, from France.

The navigator’s position sounded like a fantasy job. My father grumbled and muttered, but allowed me my interview without interference.

Well, boy, if you’d like to sign on.... Peter smirked at me across the table, secure in my obvious attraction.

But his words rankled. Boy? Was that how he saw me? "I am twenty years of age, Sir. I am not a boy." I was proud of my firm, even tone. I glanced at Father, but he was standing in the door-frame sneering at the peeling paint on the deck, and hadn’t heard our exchange.

Peter flicked his gaze to my father as well, and finding him distracted, leaned down to whisper in my ear. My entire body seized up at his sudden proximity, and I struggled not to squirm on the bench.

His lips brushed my skin as he said, "I had hoped you’d be my boy," low in my ear.

I shivered. How I’d love to hear that raspy whisper in bed. He could even call me boy, if he wanted. I’ll think about it.

He straightened and winked at me. Think long and... hard. Then without even a glance around, he puckered his lips and made a small kissing noise at me.

I could barely stand, and certainly could not speak. Instead I nodded and fled the deck, my father eagerly at my side.

We’d missed our appointment with Maxwell, and I declined to even visit the ship. Father was displeased, and showed it by refusing to speak the entire carriage ride home.

As we entered our house, Mother asked us how it went.

Father frowned at me and answered, Terrible.

Father, please. It went well, Mother. I’ve been offered a position on a merchant ship.

You’d have a position on Maxwell’s ship, if you had kept the appointment I’d arranged!

That’s not navigating! At best it’s piloting, and I wouldn’t even be a lead pilot. They travel the same route over and over, never leaving sight of shore. I want to be a real navigator. I want to test my skill, and see the world. Please—

You want to see more of that young captain, you mean! Father stood suddenly, and pointed his index finger at me. I saw you today, Clay. I saw how you reacted to him. Are you sure you’re thinking clearly? Are you following your head, or your heart? Or perhaps an organ farther south?

I blushed and gritted my teeth.

Clayton? Is this true? My mother sat forward, concerned for the first time.

I liked him, I’ll admit it. But I am not a fool. I won’t find a better opportunity than the one he offered. The crew looked well fed and relaxed. The ship needs some repair, but it looks to be in good working order. And merchanting to the Caribbean is exactly what I’ve wanted to do. I crossed my arms over my chest.

Father shook his head slowly. Don’t be impulsive, Clay. You’ve been protected here; you don’t know how cruel men can be. Especially to those who are different.

I scowled and dropped my hands. Oh really, Father? I don’t know about the cruelty being different earns?

A hint of pink bloomed at the upper edge of his beard. I can’t protect you out there.

My anger faded as quickly as it had come. I will be careful, I promise you.

He nodded and sighed, then turned away, walking out to the garden. It seemed our discussion was over. I glanced at my mother, who watched me with eyes full of worry.

She stood and stepped lightly to me, placing her soft, small hands on my shoulders. It’s not that we don’t believe in you, Clayton. We do. But you hold our hearts in your hands. We worry. She kissed my cheek and followed Father outside.

I packed my trunk, my stomach fluttering with nerves. Should I do this? Would I break my parents’ hearts? Were they correct in their mistrust of Peter? I thought about the ship, what I’d seen, what Peter had said, and more importantly: what he hadn’t.

I bit my lower lip as I neatly folded a pair of linen breeches. The Irish Lady might be a merchant ship, but it was perhaps not wholly above-board. The way the men had relaxed on-deck, the cargo of seemingly unrelated goods, the open trunk of strange clothes in the forecastle, Peter’s charismatic style—all of it spoke of a secondary purpose. Could they be a sort of pirates? Surely not. Still, a thrill of excitement shivered through me at the idea. Could I work with such men? Would they accept me? What sorts of wild adventures might I have by Peter Simpson’s side?

I took along almost all my navigational equipment, and a good supply of clothing and necessities. Who knew when or where I’d have a chance to purchase more? Father helped me into the carriage, and clasped me in a strong hug.

I’ll expect letters regularly. And a visit any time you are in town.

I promised him I would stay safe and keep him updated. Then I repeated my promises to Mother, along with a much longer, teary hug. Finally, I was in the carriage, traveling to the docks.

The Irish Lady’s gangway was up, and I had a flash of panic. Was I too late? I caught a glimpse of Peter on deck, and called out to him. Sir! Peter Simpson!

He turned and strode back to the rail, a light in his eyes and a smile on his face. My trunk seemed suddenly much easier to haul.

A large black man lowered the gangway, and looked me over as I struggled up it, raising an eyebrow at my large case. He wore his hair in long, twisted locks, and his shirt, open at the chest, revealed heavy glistening muscles. I swallowed hard. Was this a ship full of temptation? Would I spend all my days aroused and useless?

You came! Peter rushed to me, not hiding his excitement.

I nodded, smiling.

I’m so glad. He brushed his fingers over my cheek in a move much too affectionate for public display. I glanced at the large man, but he’d turned away.

Come, I’ll get you settled in and explain your position. Peter hoisted one end of my trunk, and led us toward the hatch.

I felt as if I had to ask him, before I went below, exactly what kind of situation I was signing on for. Just what sort of a ship is this, precisely? I’m sure you aren’t an entirely reputable merchant?

He dropped his side of the trunk, and I feared I’d erred. Perhaps that was too forward a thing to ask. But his crooked grin told me he was not offended. Is that a problem?

Good lord, he was sexy. His chin was shadowed with a fine dark stubble, and his hair gathered at the top of his head in some sort of ridiculous knot, which only accentuated his chocolate brown eyes and thick brows. No.... I smiled. But you’ll have to teach me.

His mouth opened on a gasp. Finally, I’d unbalanced him.

Gladly, he rasped, and picked up the trunk again.

––––––––

My quarters were tiny, but private. A hammock in a door-less broom closet was all it amounted to, but it was far better than I’d have received on most ships, I knew. And all the men I met were pleasant enough. The large black man, whose name was Jorge, was always nearby. At first I thought he mistrusted me, but soon I understood he held the rank of quartermaster, which on The Irish Lady was more like a captain than an officer.

My second day at sea, I finally gathered the nerve to speak to Jorge. I approached him as he stood at the rail. So the quartermaster, is that similar to the naval rank, or—

I regretted my question immediately, as Jorge turned with one eyebrow raised. But half his mouth quirked up, and I relaxed slightly.

Peter fancies himself a bit of a pirate. He uses pirate ranks. You’ll get used to it. He raised his chin and humor filled his eyes. Wait until he has the men vote on our course.

I scrunched my brow at that, but filed my curiosity away for a more appropriate time. Better to remain on topic. I suppose what I was asking wa—

You were wondering if I was your superior.

I didn’t like the humor in his voice, nor the fact he kept interrupting me, but I nodded and kept my chin up.

He leaned close, brushing my shoulder with his. You are new here, Boy, and you’re young. Everyone is your superior.

I frowned, but could not think of a response. My cheeks flamed and my body was a confused mix of arousal at Jorge’s attention and anger at his dismissal.

As far as the men go, you outrank all except Peter and me. But that’s if you use official ranks, and reality doesn’t always match up. You’d best respect those who know more than you, and right now, that is all of us.

I understand. Knowing I held a high rank was good, but realizing Jorge had pegged me as a boy and thought me stupid was a blow to my ego.

Anyone gives you any trouble that you can’t handle, you tell me.

I raised my face to his. Was he offering me protection, or merely doing his job? I nodded. All right.

He slapped me on the back, a hard whack that would have sent me reeling if I hadn’t been ready for it. But before he pulled his hand away, he squeezed my shoulder almost affectionately and smiled. Good. His hand drifted down my back and slapped my hip before he turned and left me at the rail alone.

I watched him walk away, thoroughly confused.

That evening, Peter called me into his cabin for an informal meeting. His bunk was just off the forecastle, isolated and completely private. Possibly the only private place on the ship. Certainly the only bunk with a locking door.

Inside, I unrolled a chart and tried to show Peter the route I’d plotted to bring us from New London to Port Royal, but he slid his hand over mine, and I froze. For two days he’d been flirting, often in the most inappropriate circumstances. But each time we were alone, he had been cool and distracted. I’d spent the nights wondering if his attraction to me had simply been a trick, contrived to get me to sign on as navigator.

Boy. I did not call you here tonight for your skill with a map.

Oh? I feigned innocence, but he cocked an eyebrow at me, not fooled for a moment.

He moved close, his hip bumping mine. You’ve done well these past two days. The men seem to like you. Jorge said you’d impressed him.

Ah. Now I understood. He’d been waiting to see if I could hold my own, or if I’d use sex to gain his favor. I’ve still got a lot to learn.

You’ll do fine. Smiling, he reached up and ran his fingers through my hair, drawing me closer, until finally his mouth was only inches away and our hips were flush together.

His arousal was as obvious as mine, and I moved my hands to his hips, holding him in place as I wriggled against him.

He clucked his tongue. Ah-ah-ah. I have a plan for you, my boy. We’ve nothing to do until morning, and I intend to use our free time well. He pushed me, using mostly his hips and the stiff erection trapped in his breeches to propel us toward the bed. I sunk down onto the soft cotton and watched him intently.

My trouser buttons were dealt with quickly, and Peter peeled them off. I had barely a moment to worry about being thus exposed before he did the same to my linen shirt. I’d adopted the casual, shoeless attire of the crew in an attempt to fit in, so there was