Chapter 9

Shamrock’s Lair

In her entire life, Clare had never stepped into a tavern. An unusual feat considering how her father considered the pub an extension of home. But Grandma Ella always told her a lady shouldn’t enter a place where drink eroded the character and restraint of men.

For Clare, it reminded her of all she detested in her father: his anger, his drowning in bitterness, and his cruelty to her mother and siblings. She found nothing amusing nor admirable in Seamus’s antics, even though he wore his patronage of stout as a badge.

Yet upon entering the Shamrock’s Lair, Clair was surprised to experience a surging spirit of adventure. There was something about being away from home in an establishment full of lost souls, villainous characters, and treasure-eyed travelers that gave her an odd sense of merry fellowship.

This brief euphoria was stunted as a wave of warm, moist air met her nostrils, the musty smells of spilled beer, spoiled seafood, and body odor.

Clare felt as if every gnarled face was ogling her as she entered, and she clung to Pierce’s arm for protection. He escorted her to the back of the room, close to a fire that vibrated with voluptuous dances.

Pierce flopped his two packs against the brick wall. “Ah. I’ll never feel me shoulders again.” They sat on two tall, knotty oak stools. “Your brother done me good this time.”

Clare was preoccupied. “Did we spend foolishly? We’re nearly drained.” Clare rubbed the muscles on her back where the straps of her bag had pressed.

The redhead pulled up another stool and used it to prop his feet to tie his muddy boots. “The passage requires two months of supplies. We may be short, in fact.”

“Isn’t that part of our passage? Don’t they feed us properly?” Clare’s scalp burned and she dug at it with her nails.

Pierce waved at the matron, who seemed too pleased to ignore him. “Some moldy bread and perhaps a taste of briny, old cod. My father said to bring our own or starve.”

“With the cost of those tickets, you’d expect meals served on silver.”

“Expectations. Hah! You better shake those.” Pierce shot up his hand. “Miss, do you think we could get some attending?”

The haggard woman approached with a rising fury and a bosom bursting from the seams of her apron. “Well, aren’t you a chappy, young fellow? And supposing you mend your manners, or you can get your attending elsewhere.”

“There’s no hurry,” Clare said.

“We’ll have two of the house stews, a couple of dark pints, and a cup of tea for the lady.” Pierce canted his head. “Could you bring some crackers as well?”

“Oh. You’ll get your crackers.” The woman spun and weaved away through the crowd.

Placing her arms on the table, Clare felt stickiness and retreated. In a spill of some prior patron’s beer, a flying insect flailed in an effort to free itself. She used her finger to slide the pool and its unfortunate swimmer off the side of the table.

There was a holler from the other end of the bar, and two rogues began to shove one another as a half-clad woman, the evident target of their dispute, pleaded for peace with drunken shrills.

Clare shuddered, silently thanking Grandma Ella for her counsel. “Is this how they all are?”

“What?”

“You know?” She waved her eyes across the room.

Pierce laughed. “These taverns? Oh. The night’s early. Just coming to life. It gets much better.”

“Lovely. Something to look forward to.”

The stout and tea arrived shortly, and between sips they entertained themselves by observing the theater of the room. Soon, their waitress slammed down two overflowing bowls of mackerel stew, which was rich and flavorful.

All the while Clare sensed Pierce had serious conversation to broach, and she parried it with light commentary as long as possible, hoping her brother would arrive to claim his stool and drink.

“What about you?” he finally said, his voice cracking.

“What about me?”

“What we’re doing. This voyage. What are you hoping for?”

This was a question Clare hadn’t thought much of until now. She knew there was an answer more complex and truthful but instead replied, “I hope my journey brings me home soon. Back to family. Isn’t that your desire as well?”

Pierce gazed at her deeply, then laughed quietly, looking into his mug for strength.

“It’s dusk,” Clare spurted. “Where’s my brother?”

“You remember the day. You know. Little Kevan.”

A flush spread across her body, the one she experienced every time she thought of her brother’s drowning.

“Seamus—”

She broke in. “That’s not kind remembering.”

“Wait,” Pierce said, with eyes watering. “It’s been years for me to mention. To tell you this.”

Clare nodded.

Pierce ran his finger around the lid of his glass. “The way you covered for Seamus. I’ll never forget that day.”

“I wish you would. It was no favor to Seamus. My father would have killed him had he known Seamus was supposed to be minding Kevan for me.” Clare felt the turgid emotions of her past surfacing. “I knew my father would merely hate me for it.”

Pierce handed her a handkerchief, and she snatched it and wiped her tears away.

“Only you know this, Pierce Brady, and if you care for me, for Seamus, you won’t mention this again.”

“Yes,” Pierce breathed. “I was there.” He took a drink of his stout, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which was shaking. “I saw courage in you that day. A kindness. Far beyond your beauty. That’s when I knew.”

A sinking came over Clare’s stomach and she felt trapped at the table. What was it about Pierce that made her feel so uncomfortable? He was strong and kind enough in spirit and wasn’t the only one who fancied her. Was she destined to be a spinster due to her own obstinacy?

“I have strong feelings for you, Clare, that I can’t deny. I don’t wish to deny any longer.”

Some commotion and a braying of laughter emanated from the front of the tavern and Clare was grateful for the distraction. She strained her neck to see above the thickening crowd.

Above the tangled fray of arms heavy in conversations, a man leapt onto the bar and waved and clamored for attention. He was short enough to stand erect without hitting his graying head on the ceiling, but when he spoke, his voice bellowed through the cacophony.

“Here ye, ladies and kind sirs.” When few minded him, he raised the sound a level and slapped his palm on the ceiling. “Your attention for a wee moment. May we converse? I’ll keep it ever so brief.”

A shout came from the back of the room. “Sit down, you old beggar.”

Unmoved, the man continued. “A few tender words and I’ll be gone. I am here to present to you the great Captain James Starkey . . .”

Feral laughter splattered the room as fingers pointed at the captain, an ancient man who stood beside his presenter, dressed sharply in all of Her Majesty’s full naval regalia.

“Skipper. Has the sea given you back your wits?”

Eruptions of heckling ensued.

Clare’s heart sank for the old man, who looked like a character pulled from the pages of so many perilous books she devoured. In his stoicism, with the medals on his jacket preening, he appeared undamaged by the insults. Either he was shielded by the kindness of senility or perhaps had fought too many greater battles against tempests, whales, and pirates.

The barker pounded on the ceiling again. The crowd silenced itself, possibly seeking more fodder for their cruel mockery. “We are most pleased to announce the fortuitous availability of nearly a dozen places on the Sea Mist, leaving dock for open waters in the morning. She’s a sound brigantine, this one, with a proud history as a once-esteemed member of the royal fleet.”

“It should be called the Sea Bottom,” someone shouted.

“Make sure you go down with ’er, old man.”

The patrons grumbled and waved arms at them in disinterest, returning to their own conversations.

Fighting obscurity in the clatter, the barker shouted, “We break at dawn, to a land of opportunity. Wealth, jobs, and a better life awaits you!”

“Get down, you old blowhard!” was heard as a few wrestled the man down from the counter to the floor.

Clare felt for the man and his captain, but something shifting toward her in the crowd stole her attention. Straining to see around the mass of bodies, she saw a familiar green jacket, tall hat, and unmistakably bouncy gait. Pence. And after meeting her gaze, he burrowed his way through with even more determination.

“Well. Look who’s here to collect his due,” Clare said, and turned to see Pierce shifting from doleful contemplations.

“I’ll square up with the boy for you,” Pierce said in a defeated tone.

“Miss Clare, Miss Clare,” Pence burst out as he approached.

She reached into her purse and started to sift through her coins. “I know, Pence. My brother treated you shamefully . . .”

“No, Miss Clare.” He took off his hat, pulled a dirty handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wiped the sweat off his brow. His breathing was heavy. “I’m not here to settle. It’s the other man. Your brother, right?”

Clare’s pulse soared. “What about my brother?”

He lofted her pack on his shoulder. “Come, Miss Clare. We shan’t tarry. He’s in the thickets, he is.”