The Promise Keeper: Sea Heroes of Duxbury Read online

  Her eyes widened in alarm, and he raised the axe, allowing the handle to slide through his ungloved hand so he might hold it closer to the blade in a less threatening manner.

  Inside her mittens, Iris’s fingers tightened around the handle of her basket. With each thump of her heart, she grew increasingly aware of his hostile expression, his potent presence of coarse masculinity. His eyes shone bright with the cold, his cheeks ruddy above several days’ growth of beard, darkening his jaw between a set of long side whiskers.

  He struck a handsome figure of health and strength. A black neckerchief tied over the upright collar of his white shirt with dropped shoulders and full sleeves. He wore a heavy, woolen waistcoat and nut brown trousers tucked into muddied, knee-high boots with lined tops. Leather bootstraps dangled from their sides.

  The rumors had warned her to expect a roughened sea dog, never this raffish man.

  His gaze stayed intent upon her, as though awestruck. Iris didn’t quite know how to react to such an expression. She felt she’d interrupted him at a most inconvenient moment. He didn’t look anymore prepared for a visitor than if she had burst unannounced into his bedchamber.

  Hackles raised, Snow inched forward. She growled low at Keeper Mayne.

  He did not shy from the threat. In fact, he showed no fear. He stood resolute, his mouth set in a firm, grim line. His was a roguishly aristocratic face with stark, dark brows and eyes of a penetrating coffee brown, his nose strong and distinct.

  He turned those deep, dark eyes on Snow, and his brows knit with a predatory glare that warned he’d chop off her head if she got too close.

  A commotion arose, happening so suddenly, it seemed to materialize out of thin air. There was flutter of widespread wings, and the next Iris knew a gull had landed between them, flapping its wings and squawking nosily. A proud creature, so bright in its whiteness, the gull hopped on its single leg, directing its complaint at Snow as though scolding her.

  Shock overcame the Labrador as it did Iris, but once worn off, Snow barked defensively at the bird.

  “Salty,” commanded Keeper Mayne in a stern voice, and the sea bird alighted onto his shoulder. “He’s no more used to receiving visitors than I. You’ve interrupted me in the task of chopping wood. I’ve many duties to keep me busy here at Pilgrim Light. My work does not allow for social calls, and I prefer it that way.”

  Iris noted his words were neither a greeting nor an apology for frightening her but a reprimand. Unwelcoming cur was the retort that popped into her head, but she held her tongue. Looking him in the eye, she stepped forward. He stood a few inches taller than she. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion. I merely came to wish you good tidings, Keeper Mayne.”

  He possessed the narrow-eyed stare of one who’d spent many an hour squinting into the sun. A seaman’s gaze. She’d seen it in her father. There was more going on inside the keeper’s head than his crusty manner allowed.

  “Are you the girl who stands on the roof of Nook House in a white wrapper each morning, haunting me like a ghost?” His breath smoked in the frosty air.

  “You have spied me on the walk?” Iris found it disconcerting to learn that while she had been on the lookout for him, he’d been watching her. Then again, the knowledge excited her in a way.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Iris Moon. My father—”

  “I know your father. Well enough to be assured Captain Moon would not have permitted you out on the bay in this clime.”

  “And yet here I stand. Father says I have built a tolerance for harsh weather having sailed with him and my mother from birth. It was he who brought you here, I believe. And yet, regrettably, you and I have never met.”

  “Oh? Haven’t we?”

  “We have not. I do not know you, sir. Are you implying that we have met?” Could it be he was a bit crazed? Was that the reason for his unpleasantness? “I would certainly remember if I had made your acquaintance, Keeper Mayne.” The man was far from forgettable. And not just because of the one-legged gull on his shoulder. “You have never been to Nook House nor have we ever crossed paths on the mainland. I notice you do not attend meeting services.”

  “To what purpose, when I feel His presence most strongly standing upon the deck of the lantern, looking out across the bay to the mainland shores and at the masts and sails of incoming and outgoing vessels.” He gave a shrug and the bird flew from his shoulder to a perch on a nearby rock. Snow watched its landing with interest but did not react. The gull called Salty cocked his head and stared back.

  Iris patted her dog’s side reassuringly while Keeper Mayne continued.

  “I believe God is more readily found here, among the birds and sky and trees, than within a building at the center of Duxbury village. Do you not agree, Iris Moon? Be truthful. Don’t you feel closer to our Lord up on the captain’s walk of Nook House in your dressing gown, with your light silvery hair unbound and tossed by a sea wind, than seated in a pew trussed up in your Sunday finest? I expect that’s why you return there each morning, even if you don’t admit it to yourself. You’re certainly not waiting for a ship.”

  “Truly, I do not know what to make of you, Keeper Mayne, and your rebellious theology. You’ve thrown my thoughts and senses into a whirlwind. I won’t deny nor admit what you say, for I do not feel comfortable engaging in this thread of conversation.” It horrified her to think he’d seen her in her dressing gown, and yet Iris felt not as horrified as perhaps she should.

  She held her laden basket before her. “I’ve come to wish you merry and to bring you a bit of holiday cheer from the Ladies Charitable Sewing Society of Duxbury.”

  He made no effort to accept her offering. Indeed, he did not move at all, not even to blink. “You’ve wasted your time. The Massachusetts District Superintendent pays me a fair wage and delivers supplies regularly. I do not need or desire charity.”

  “But surely you would not refuse our token of gratitude for protecting our shores? After I have rowed out to deliver it. It would be unkind.”

  Despite his best efforts, his lips betrayed the faintest hint of a smile.

  Iris peered down into her basket. “I’ve brought Aunt Mary’s gooseberry jam. Mrs. Lewis’s brandied peaches. A plum pudding of Hetty’s and a pair of homemade bayberry candles from my good friend, Tuppence. Mrs. Sprague and Mrs. Seabury, both wives of prosperous merchants, have contributed figs, oranges, coffee and teas from foreign ports. And because you have yet to enjoy one of her husband’s sermons, the Reverend Mrs. Morrow believes you in dire need of a pocket Bible.”

  Grasping the handle in both of her white mittens, Iris held forth the basket. “We had hoped they might make the season a bit more pleasant for you. Won’t you please accept our gift?”

  The crusty fellow showed no interest in her offerings, making no move to relieve her of the burdensome basket except to frown. “Nothing in there from you?”

  Her good cheer dulled at his ungracious manner. Iris reached in amongst the gifts to thrust a handful of soft, knitted wool at the keeper.

  He frowned at the deep forest green wad in her hand but accepted it nonetheless. “What is this?”

  “It was a favorite article of clothing among seamen of long ago who called it a—”

  “Monmouth cap,” he finished, unfolding the bell-shaped, watch cap which featured a matching green button sewn on its crown.

  Iris watched him earnestly examine her gift. “My father often wears just such a cap my mother once knit for him.”

  His ungenerous expression softened and he pulled the cap down over his ears until only the ends of his long side whiskers showed beneath. “Thank you.”

  She basked in his acknowledgement, but at her smile, his brows drew together beneath a threatening glare. “You grin? Do you find me amusing?” He studied her with expressive brown eyes. “Or perhaps you remember? Is that why you’ve rowed out to see me?”

  “Remember what, sir?”

  For a moment, Iris thought she read disappointmen
t in his features.

  “Nothing,” he said. “’Twas nothing. A ridiculous thought.”

  “If ’twas nothing, then why mention it at all?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Do not vex me, Iris Moon.”

  “Why do you call me Iris Moon, using my full name? How can you claim I vex you, when I bring glad tidings and a Christmas treat? If you must know why I smile, it is because I knit that cap you wear so well. I daresay it compliments you. That is, when your face is not set in a scowl.”

  He touched the cap possessively and scowled nonetheless. “Well, what would you have me call you then?”

  “Iris. You may simply call me Iris.”

  Why had she granted this surly fellow use of her given name, when she’d meant to hold to propriety and say Miss Moon? Her face warmed at the confusing feelings inside her, and she averted her gaze to the gull. “Why do you call him Salty?”

  “Because an old salt he is, if ever there was. His life is the sea. It sustains and nourishes him. It’s likely he lost his leg in some seaworthy pursuit.”

  With a crunch of his high boots on the frozen earth, Keeper Mayne stepped forward to receive the basket. “There now, Iris, you have fulfilled your mission. Please convey my gratitude to the Ladies Charitable Sewing Society of Duxbury. You may now return home with a clear conscience.”

  When Iris made no move to be on her way but stood her ground, shivering, the keeper sighed. “I suppose you’d consider me an ungrateful cur if I did not to invite you in for a cup of tea and a seat by the fire to warm yourself.”

  “I would indeed, sir,” she said with a lift of her chin. “Please, I have dreamed of standing high upon the lantern gallery and admiring the view.”

  “You are expecting a tour as well? Very well. Come along then.”

  Perhaps it was her cajoling plea, but Iris felt the keeper’s wall of gruffness crumble slightly. He did not scowl, nor deny her as she anticipated he might, but silently led the way to the heavy wooden door built into the lighthouse’s rubblestone foundation. As Snow moved to follow them inside, Iris held back, looking to the man for permission.

  “The dog is welcome to warm herself as well,” he said then disappeared through the doorway.

  Iris followed him up two stone steps and into the gloomy stone tower with the Labrador. Inside, a large, circular living area was lit only by a glowing fire in the hearth.

  “Welcome to my living quarters,” he said in a dry voice.

  Eyes wide, Iris removed her white mittens as she stepped around a small table and two ladder-back chairs to approach the fire. She didn’t wish to miss a single detail that might grant her insight into the mysterious keeper who’d fueled her curiosity for over a year.

  The humble chamber served as both galley and parlor in one, she noted. A row of assorted spice jars lined the rough wooden mantle from which several iron utensils hung. A three-legged, cast iron cooking pot and a spider pot sat on the coals.

  By the window, a worn easy chair sat upon an equally worn, braided rug. Maps and charts cluttered a small bookcase beside a desk whose pigeonhole slots were stuffed with various writings and other papers. A thick, leather journal lay open on the desktop.

  Keeper Mayne removed his wool cap and set the axe down by the entry. “Before I put on the kettle, I should perhaps warn you that gull droppings frequently wash down with the rainwater as it rinses off the roof into the cistern. I’m told they make for an excellent source of calcium.”

  Iris’s throat closed in an involuntary gag at the thought of gull droppings in the drinking water.

  Feeling green, she eyed him mutely. It was then, for the first time, that the keeper smiled and Iris noticed how handsome a fellow he was. A flash of white teeth illuminated his dark, scruffy face.

  He chuckled. “I do have access to a fresh spring as well.”

  He hung a kettle from the swinging crane on the hearth. With one hand he lifted the back of a dining chair and swung it around to face the fire. “Sit and remove those wet boots. You’ll not be allowed to take one step up the tower until your feet are dry.”

  “I appreciate your kind offer, but I hardly think it decorous for me to remove more than my cloak inside your bachelor’s dwelling. It is irregular enough that I am here at all. Still, I shall sit for a moment and warm my feet.” Accepting the seat, Iris lowered her hood.

  Snow came to lie beside her chair.

  The keeper leaned an elbow on the mantel and studied her beneath his black brows. “You gave no thought to propriety when you rowed here alone and unchaperoned. Me thinks you are no lady, Iris Moon, but a spirited hoyden. And now you wish to hide behind convention rather than dry your feet, when I know they must be near froze. Remove those boots or I shall do so for you.”

  “You would not dare.”

  He was at her feet in an instant, turning her left boot in his hand in order to loosen the laces that ran up the side. Iris sat immobilized from the shock of finding herself in such an impropriety. She lost herself in the capable touch of his fingers and his masculine scent of sea and salt, as she gazed at his bowed, dark head.

  He slipped the boot off her foot then glanced up.

  Mischief twinkled in his deep coffee brown eyes. “Shall I remove your stocking as well?”

  Good sense returned and Iris swatted him away. “Certainly not. Leave me be. I shall do it myself.”

  He rose and moved away. As Iris bent to roll down her damp stockings, she heard him opening cupboards, preparing their tea.

  Whilst her cold toes soaked up the heat, he handed her a steaming cup.

  “I’ll take you at your word that the water for the tea does not come from the cistern,” she said.

  Iris waited for him to reassure her. He made no reply but sipped from his own teacup.

  Cautiously, she followed his lead. Warmth from the brew spread down her throat and into her belly. By its delicate, imported flavor she surmised the tea to be one of those from the Christmas basket.

  Over the rim of her cup, she studied Keeper Mayne’s unshaven, raffish face, his stark brows and bright dark eyes. He wore his sleek black hair parted down the center, hanging over his long side whiskers.

  He watched her watching him. Iris felt his stare grow intense. She curled her bare toes on the stone floor and glanced down into the contents of her teacup. “Do you enjoy your work here at Pilgrim Light?”

  “It satisfies me well enough. There’s a peace at this light that cannot be found on the mainland and satisfaction in watching over the hundreds of boats that sail in and out of the bays. It has been pleasant for me. Until today.”

  Iris returned a sour face for his sour words. “There has been much speculation about you in Duxbury. It is said you are a curmudgeon, and now I can inform the gossips they are correct.”

  “I won’t disagree. I admit it. I am a bit of a cur. What else do these ‘gossips’ say?”

  Iris did not answer immediately but sipped her tea, recounting the rumors in her head. At length, she lowered her teacup. “I have heard whispers you were once a pirate. A pirate who, after serving a harsh prison sentence, was banished to the lonely existence of a light keeper in further punishment of his crimes.”

  “And here, I assumed all convicted pirates were hung.”

  “Well, how much more intriguing is a pirate who has managed to escape the hangman’s noose.”

  He scoffed. “It’d be a foolish girl indeed who’d be sitting here now, barefoot in my private quarters, if she believed me a pirate.”

  Iris colored at his sarcastic tone. “It is a rumor only, but one of several.”

  “Oh? There are others? Do tell.”

  Iris pressed her cold fingers around the warm teacup. “Well, there circulates another version of that rumor which claims you a pirate who won the love of a lighthouse keeper’s daughter. You left her for the sea with a promise to return, after having made your fortune so you could marry, but your ship was wrecked on the shores of Cape Cod. Many seaman were lost in th
e wreck and your lover presumed you dead as well. In her grief, she threw herself from the light tower and drowned. You keep a light in her honor, watching for her.”

  He stared blankly for a moment before enjoying a deep belly laugh. “Iris, that sounds not unlike the tale of the Black Bellamy, whose famous pirate ship Whydah wrecked over a hundred years ago.”

  She was familiar with the famous tale. “I do not claim these tales are anything more than hearsay, another of which tells that you once loved a woman who perished in a shipwreck and out of grief took up the occupation of a keeper, guiding vessels to safety in her memory.”

  Keeper Mayne remained silent, his expression unreadable behind the prickly beard.

  “They are all such fantastic and romantic tales. I hardly know what to believe. Only you can dispel them.” Iris fairly held her breath in anticipation of his answer.

  “I’ve heard it said, there are truths and falsehoods in all rumors.”

  Iris straightened in her seat. “Then you admit some truth to these rumors?”

  Keeper Mayne stepped before the hearth to warm his strong, winter-raw hands. “I shall tell you two true things. One, my heart was broken but not by a woman to whom I was betrothed. The love of my life perished upon a Cape sandbar. And two, I have been to prison but have never been accused of being a pirate.”

  He left her with her mouth agape, pondering his confession, while he disappeared into the hold. A cold draft of air swept the room from the opened doorway. A shiver ran through her. Iris quickly finished her tea before it turned cold as well, when presently Keeper Mayne reappeared with a cured bacon. Snow followed at his heels as he carried it to the table then began to shave off several slices.

  The Labrador sat before him, her expressive brown eyes round with anticipation.

  Iris watched the keeper’s precision with the knife. “So … you have indeed been to prison, then?”

  “That is what I said.”

  “Er … please, sir … there is no need to prepare me something to eat. I shan’t be staying long.”

  “I don’t recall inviting you to stay.” He tossed Snow a bit of meat, which she caught in mid-air with a small leap. The keeper donned a dark blue pea jacket which hung from a peg on the wall and stuffed the remaining bacon into a pocket. He flipped up his jacket collar. “But if you’re still inclined to visit the lantern, pull on your boots and follow me. You can leave your stockings by the fire to dry.”