Caution to the Wind – Chapter One

As promised, here’s the opening chapter of my next project, Caution to the Wind, an American Historical Romance set in Baltimore in 1778. The American Revolution is in full swing. Amanda, a young woman determined to keep her little brother from volunteering aboard a Privateer, finds herself enlisted as one of the crew.

As a reminder, this is a clean rewrite of my 2013 release of Caution to the Wind. I anticipate changing the title before publication. As always, I’d love to hear your comments. If you’re interested in an ARC once the rewrite is complete, you can sign up using the form at the bottom of my website's homepage.

Until then, happy reading!

MJ

Chapter One

Baltimore 1778

The American Revolution had become a drawn-out battle between the ragtag American Army and British forces. General Washington’s troops, decimated by the previous winter at Valley Forge, were a sickly group of soldiers ill-equipped for battle. On land, it was a war of attrition.

At sea, a different scene prevailed where privateers, ships given the legal right to pursue and capture English vessels supplying the British forces, combined American capitalism with patriotic fervor. A combination of bravery and enlightened self-interest provided General Washington a powerful ally in the War for Independence.

Amanda Blakely twisted around to take a critical survey of her appearance in the floor-length bedroom mirror. Her father’s work clothes were large, but not so big that a few tucks here and there, and a wide leather belt couldn’t make them fit her tall frame. She grabbed the aged strap from the dresser and fastened it about her slender waist using one of the notches she had added with nail and hammer.

She had bound her chest, an almost unnecessary task since her curves weren’t exactly the kind that drew attention. Still, without her shift, the soft woolen bindings were all that protected her delicate skin from the coarse cotton weave of her tunic.

She scrunched her nose at her reflection. Turning from a grown woman into an adolescent boy had taken less effort than she expected—certainly less than she would have hoped. If nature had been kinder to her, it wouldn’t have been this easy. She leaned closer to study her youthful face in the glass. Sixteen? No, no stubble to make anyone believe she was quite that old. Even fifteen would be a stretch. Fourteen, a year older than Neil, would be much more believable. In her father’s clothes, she looked far more like an adolescent boy than a twenty-one-year-old woman.

Amanda stared at the image reflected in the old mirror's wavy surface. What would she do if he refused to return home with her? Would she follow him? She had always considered herself sensible, but with her little brother’s life at stake, she would do whatever it took to protect him.

However, she must consider the possibility that she would not make it in time. Neil had fled sometime during the night and, even if she left soon, it would be well on noon before she reached the harbor. What would she do if he had already signed on to a privateer? Or worse—that ship had left port?

“Whatever it took,” she whispered to her reflection.

Amanda snatched the scissors from the nightstand. If she hurried, she might reach Neil in time to prevent him from doing something foolish. Sighing, she took a last look at her long, dark curls.

“For my brother.” She made the first cut.

An unexpected shudder shook her. Excitement or fear? She forced the question from her mind and resumed cutting, the cold metal heavy in her trembling hand.

Once finished, she leaned in and tugged at a lock beside her temple. When released, it sprang back, a cherubic curl against her cheek.

“Humph, it will have to do, I suppose.” She tied her hair back into a short tail that hung just past her shoulders with a scrap of old leather.

Satisfied, she picked up her father’s aged felt hat and flopped it onto her head. Then she spun on her heel, snatched her canvas sack off the end of the bed, and sped down the back stairs.

****

Amanda urged her sturdy plow horse, Homer, toward Baltimore. By the time they reached the edge of town, he whistled and wheezed, then let out a lungful of air in a shuddering sigh that promised to be his last. With no time to waste on negotiations, she sold him to a skeptical farmer for far less than he was worth.

Without a mount, Amanda forced her way through the busy portside streets on foot. Bodies packed the cobbles in a steady, jostling current. Despite the early hour, it seemed most of the townspeople had business at the docks—and all in the opposite direction.

Bracing herself against the oncoming tide of people, she stood on her toes and craned her neck to peer over the crowd. What Neil lacked in height, he made up for in strength, but at this moment she would have given anything to add a couple of inches to him, enough to raise his dark head above the masses.

Amanda pushed forward again, sidestepping murky puddles and drawing up the lapels of her father’s coat to shield her mouth and nose from the stench. At times, the ground grew so muddy she had no choice but to advance on tiptoe. Water soaked her leather shoes, and greenish-brown droplets of foul-smelling ooze spotted her cotton stockings.

“I bloody well can do the job, and I challenge any man who tells me I can’t!”

Craning her neck, Amanda searched for the source of the familiar, belligerent voice.

“And, I tells you, you can’t!” came the cantankerous reply.

She buried her chin in her chest, the way Homer did when working a new field filled with roots, and plowed her way toward the voices through the tangle of idling sailors. The tang of the ocean stung her nose, but the sea of elbows, backs, and broad shoulders made it hard to see anything but the bodies in front of her. A burly man in striped pants and a tattered shirt threatened to cuff her ears for her rudeness. Amanda quickened her pace, shouldering past one stalwart frame after another, holding her nose against the sour onslaught of unwashed bodies.

She dodged the elbow of a sailor lost in a fiery debate with his shipmate, and at last, the sea opened up before her. Amanda gasped, letting the fresh, salty air fill her desperate lungs.

 “I can!” the familiar voice roared.

Amanda spun so fast that the disheveled crowd became no more than a blur, like the oily surface of the puddles she had tried so hard to avoid.

At the edge of the wharf, she spotted Neil’s sturdy form.

A stocky old man with wiry spikes of grizzled hair sticking out beneath a weathered cap leaned over a rough-hewn table. Her brother matched the sailor’s aggressive stance until a paper’s breadth separated their noses. Two gazes locked, each vying to dominate the small space above the table.

“Neil!”

The boy jerked his gaze away from his adversary, but his glare remained. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Amanda considered scolding him for his language but checked herself. A “boy” her age would likely not mind it. She made a mental note to pay closer attention to her brother’s colorful word choice from now on. If she could muster the courage, she might even borrow a few of his favorite expressions.

“Who the bloody hell might you be?” The crusty sailor scratched the stubble on his chin and sat down on his stool with a hard thump.

“I’m his brother,” Amanda replied, forcing her voice deeper into her throat. The effort scraped her vocal cords, and a brief, awkward cough escaped her.

The old man let his gaze trail over her, lingering on her blonde curls, her narrow waist, and her long legs. A salty ocean breeze cooled the sweat forming on the top of her upper lip, yet Amanda forced herself to stand still. Just when she was sure he would call her bluff, he turned his attention to Neil and gave him the same cynical perusal.

“You don’t look like brothers.” He squinted at them with watery eyes.

“That’s ’cause we ain’t,” Neil crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at her.

Amanda’s stomach flipped. Would Neil give her away? She turned to him, trying to find a way to persuade him to stay quiet without making the man suspicious. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish trying to breathe air, not yet willing to surrender to the inevitable.

“At least not real ones anyways.” He let his arms drop to his sides. “He’s my adopted brother.”

An audible sigh escaped her before she could stifle it.

Ignoring her, the old man sucked his teeth and let his gaze roam Neil’s short, stocky figure once more. “So did your father give ya permission to join a privateer at—”

“Fifteen,” Neil replied.

“Uh-huh.” The man rubbed the stubble on his chin again.

It was a wonder the man had any whiskers left, the way his gnarled fingers never stopped scraping over them.

“Father’s dead,” Neil answered, his voice flat, his gaze unwavering.

“I see. No family then,” the corner of his eye twitched, “except a brother, of course.”

He turned to Amanda next. “And, how ’bout you? You fifteen too?”

Suspicion coated the man’s words, but Amanda paid scant attention. Her mind raced to form an answer that made sense.

If Neil was fifteen then−No wait, I am taller. I must be older. That would make me−

“Are we about ready to sail, Bull?” a voice boomed from behind them.

Amanda gasped. Neil shot her a warning glance before they both turned to face the owner of the powerful set of lungs.

Standing straight, Amanda’s head skimmed the man’s shoulders, and her gaze locked on a stylized carving of a she-wolf on a bone button midway up the finely woven blue woolen waistcoat stretched across the broad expanse of his chest.

Amanda’s gaze crept upward, past the last she-wolf, past the narrow frill that adorned his starched white shirt, past his equally pristine neck stock, until it settled on the steady pulse beating beneath the shadow of an angled jaw. She willed her gaze to continue its upward path, away from the safety of the slow, steady beat.

His cheekbones were high on his tanned face, his nose straight and narrow at the bridge but flared outward toward the tip, softening an otherwise harsh and unyielding countenance. From beneath straight black brows, he skewered the old man with golden eyes so wild they appeared almost feral.

To Amanda’s amazement, the old man he called Bull stood his ground, undaunted by the withering glare.

“No, we ain’t ’bout ready to sail.” He slammed his fist on the table, making the logbook and quill jump. “We won’t be done loadin’ supplies ’til tomorrow, and I got two more spots t’ fill.”

“What about these two?” asked the man, impervious to Bull’s gray glower.

“They ain’t got no experience!” With each word, Bull’s voice rose in volume.

“That so?” He turned golden eyes on them.

Amanda’s heart fluttered, but she willed herself not to look away. He wore the shape of a man, yet behind his eyes lurked something more primitive—an untamed animal, unafraid and sure of his dominion over the lesser creatures around him.

Strength radiated from him in waves that washed over her, curling around her limbs, binding her wrists and ankles with an unseen force and stealing the will to move. Taller than many of the men around him—perhaps broader in the shoulders, too—he carried a lean build that didn’t match the bulk of the men loading crates behind him. His power came not from sheer size but from an energy buried deep within. A shiver rippled through her.

He clasped Amanda and Neil by one shoulder each and gave a sharp squeeze. She seemed made to fit his palm, his strong fingers digging into the tender flesh below the joint. His touch seared her, as though nothing separated skin from skin.

She tried not to flinch as he frowned and ran his hand down her bicep. Instead, she followed her brother’s lead, returning the man’s scowl with one of her own, attempting with every ounce of her being to match his ferocity as her insides took on the consistency of melted butter.

“And they be calling me stubborn,” Bull muttered.

Amanda swore a smile tugged at the corner of the man’s lips, but the look in those hard eyes suggested he wasn’t the smiling type.

Trapped in his gaze as well as his grip, Amanda prayed he would finish soon. Surely, he saw through her disguise even if Bull did not. Her stomach tightened as though turned on a screw.

Instead, he took his time, assessing, calculating, judging. Everywhere he looked, her skin heated. Held tight in his palm, her arm threatened to burst into flames.

Amanda studied him while he studied her. Hair so black it looked almost blue fell over his brow, and dark lashes framed his golden eyes. Eyes that color were new to her; she had never seen their like before. She might have called him handsome, were it not for the firm set of his jaw and the way his gaze probed every line of her face, hot and unblinking.

Her breath rushed across her bottom lip; she’d been watching him, slack‑jawed. She snapped her mouth shut and focused on taking slow breaths through her nose while he finished prodding and squeezing her.

He slid his palm to the front of one shoulder and pushed as though testing her steadiness. She did her best to hold her ground when he pushed again. She gasped and stumbled backward when he slid his hand lower. The heat that rose to her face matched the heat that outlined the form of his hand. She felt it all, fingertips, thumb, palm, as though his hand still lay across her breast.

Beneath her father’s wool coat, his coarse tunic, and her wool bindings, her body responded. At twenty-one, she might be inexperienced, but she was not so naïve as not to understand the tingling in her belly and the weakness in her limbs. That she had never experienced any of these things didn’t keep her from recognizing her uncivilized reaction to an uncivilized man.

“They’ll do. See that they’re on board and understand their duties by the time we shove off.” Without waiting for Bull’s reply, he walked away.

The dockside masses parted before his long, languid strides. Amanda stood frozen until his broad back disappeared, swallowed by the throngs that closed in around him and filled the wake he left behind.

“If that’s what ya be wantin’ then I suppose they’ll do just fine,” Bull scratched a few notes in the ship’s registry. “’Course, it’ll serve ya right, questioning my judgment. You’ll be getting what ya deserve with these two.”

Bull chuckled, and Amanda scowled at him. What did he find so amusing if he disapproved of Neil and her so much?

“Well, ya heard the captain.”

Amanda’s eyelids fluttered. “Th-that was the captain?”

A chill filled her, replacing the residual heat of the captain’s slow scrutiny. That his self‑possessed arrogance hadn’t tipped her off made her doubt her judgment—and the way she reacted to him made her doubt her sanity. Either way, her body recognized the threat before her mind did. Heat drained from her fingers, the dock noise faded to a dull roar, and every instinct screamed at her to steer clear of him.

“That he is. Captain Stoakes is his name, but that’s not what his enemies be callin’ him.” Bull’s toothy grin showed several gold teeth, but his words were thick with warning.

“What do his enemies call him?” Amanda asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

“The Sea Wolf.” Bull’s eyes twinkled beneath bushy brows.

“Really? How come?” Neil sounded far too enthusiastic for his own good.

“On account of the way he stalks his prey.” Bull’s voice dropped to a grinding whisper, like stones turning in a gristmill. She and Neil leaned in to hear. “Like the wolf, he is bloodthirsty and merciless. No one who crosses him is safe. Be glad you’re part of his crew.” The acrid reek of tobacco rolled over Amanda, burning her nose, but she did not pull back, choosing to hold her breath instead. “But you’d better be careful not to land on his bad side or...” His voice trailed off, leaving them to picture the horrors the Sea Wolf visited on those who displeased him.

The old man paused. Surely, he exaggerated. Her breath had just returned to her lungs when he continued, “If there are women or children on the ships he takes”—Bull leaned back and crossed his arms—“well, that don’t matter none. He tosses them over the side and pretends they were never there.” He spat a dark stream at a gull that had wandered close. The bird squawked in protest and hopped sideways to a safer distance. “Well, sometimes he keeps the women for a while.”

Amanda scrunched her nose. For a man who hadn’t smiled once until now, Bull seemed to be grinning a bit too much. Then she remembered the captain’s golden eyes. Hunter’s eyes.

Maybe he hadn’t been teasing.

“Well, make your mark,” Bull said, his voice normal, as if he had never spoken of the Sea Wolf. He dipped the quill into the inkpot and handed it to Neil.

Neil scrawled his signature, then passed the quill to Amanda. She held the point over the yellowed parchment and froze. She couldn’t very well sign her real name—and somehow, in all her planning, it had never once occurred to her that she’d need a boy’s name to finish the disguise.

“If ya can’t write, ya can put an X on the line, and that’ll do,” said Bull.

She glanced at him but found none of Bull’s earlier mistrust in that grizzled face. He hadn’t seen through her—or else he followed the captain’s orders without question. Either way, she was in the clear. For now.

Turning her attention to the book, she scrawled the first name she thought of in big, bold script...Adam Blakely.

“Off you go, then.” He waved a dismissive hand toward the narrow boards leading from the dock to the upper deck of the small ship. “Check in with Mr. Smythe when you reach the top. He’ll be showing ya where to stow your things and be explainin’ your duties to ya.”

Amanda and Neil grabbed their sacks and turned to go. Before starting up the ramp after her brother, she glanced at the page she had just signed. The name of the ship that had become her home ran across the top in large, flowing script: Registry of the Amanda.

She sucked in a breath. Good omen or bad?

Neither. She released the air from her lungs. Amanda Blakely no longer existed in this new world. From now on, she was Adam Blakely, and she would do well to remember it.

A tingling in her shoulder reminded her of the man with whom she would be spending the next few months. Nothing in those hard eyes suggested he enjoyed a good ruse. Around him, she would have to move and speak as a boy, even think like one, never granting the woman beneath so much as an appearance.

Amanda gripped the rough rope handhold that ran along the gangplank; her knuckles blanched with effort as she forced herself up the steep incline. At the top, she stepped over the narrow lip and onto the deck. Chaos met her in a rush: crewmen darted past like ants in a crowded hill, each one intent on his task, no one pausing, no one slacking. The ship thrummed with purpose, as if it, too, understood that every movement mattered.

She tightened her grip on her canvas sack and hauled it higher onto her shoulder. Only then did the truth hit her: she hadn’t saved Neil from anything. Somewhere along the way, her primary objective—to keep him from enlisting with a privateer—had gone off course. She hadn’t argued, hadn’t stalled; she’d signed the ship’s registry right alongside him. A sailor in striped trousers bumped her, and she lurched into the knot of recruits as they closed ranks, cutting off any hope of escape.