1 The Way of the Sea Cheney Duvall stared up at the great clouds of soaring sail, though her eyes watered from the sun and salt sting. The Brynn Annalea had found a tail of the northeast trade winds, strong and hot, to wend her fast down Baja and push her easily over the Tropic of Cancer. Her sharp prow knifed the water, the jib with the lucky shark’s fin mounted on it splashing in the wave crests. She was a beautiful thing, fast, sharp-hulled, streamlined, proud. And dangerous. Cheney shouted up at Shiloh, and he was shouting back down at her. Neither of them could possibly hear the other, but both of them kept on. “You idiot! Come down from there this instant! You are going to fall and die!” Cheney shrieked. He made an impatient gesture—Get below, you dumb girl!— which made Cheney’s heart almost stop, for he had let go with one arm to make jabbing “get below” motions to her. Twelve seamen were perched along the bucking, straining yard, feet kicked back against the footrope, bellies pressed against the yard, hands gathering up the heavy canvas. Cheney watched, horrified, as they struggled to roll the great main royal sail around the yard. Finally it was wound as neatly as thread on a spool, and the sailors, with strong and agile movements, passed lengths of rope around sail and yard and made it fast with hitches. One by one they started edging back along the yard, making for the weather shrouds to scamper down. 4 Lynn Morris “Miss Duvall,” an authoritative voice spoke behind her left shoulder. “Until we shorten sail, it’s going to be rough here on the upper deck.” Cheney looked around in surprise at stern, hawklike Captain Sloane. She hadn’t heard his approach. Now that she’d taken her eyes off Shiloh, who was flapping in the twenty-five-knot wind almost two hundred feet up in the air, she saw that the crew was swarming over the deck, manning the clew lines and buntlines to haul the fore and mizzen sails up to the yard. The Brynn An- nalea leaped and crashed down, and warm water splashed up to Cheney’s ankles. “I’m in the way,” she said weakly. Captain Sloane replied evenly, “Yes, ma’am.” Captain Sloane wasn’t much for having women on his ship. Cheney bristled a little. “But . but, Shiloh—I mean, Mr. Irons-Winslow—he’s surely in the way too! Flapping around up there in this gale!” Captain Sloane’s mouth twitched, though his slitted eyes didn’t reflect amusement. “Miss Duvall, Mr. Irons-Winslow is the owner of this ship, and if he wants to hang his laundry from the moonraker, he’s got a right to, and oddly enough, I expect he could do it as well as any sailor on this ship. And, ma’am, this is hardly a gale. It’s just a spanking fair wind.” “Oh. Well, I suppose I’ll go below.” “Yes, ma’am.” She turned toward the stern ladder, then asked, “Sir, would you please ask Shi—Mr. Irons-Winslow to wait on me at his earli- est convenience?” Captain Sloane glanced back up at the barefoot, shirtless, muscular, and tanned young man as he nimbly monkey-climbed down the netlike shroud. “He’ll be a while, ma’am. He wanted to learn how to shorten sail, and he’s got four of them to go.” Cheney nodded and went down the ladder, now in a hurry. Her earlier exhilaration was dying as her stomach began to roll Driven with the Wind 5 along with the motion of the ship. That was the way of the sea, it seemed. Just when you thought you were getting along fine together, she turned on you, laughing, and you ended up seasick. 8 It must have been hours later when Cheney awoke. All she could see was the golden glow of the lantern above her bunk in Captain Sloane’s cabin. It was gimbaled, so it rolled along with the ship. Cheney promptly vomited. Shiloh was there, smelling clean and outdoorsy, his voice soft, his blond hair glowing from the sun’s whitewash. “Easy there, Doc. I’ve got you. Just lie back now. It’s all right. .” He cleaned her face with a cool cloth. Before she passed out again, she reflected how odd it was that she always wanted Shiloh when she was ill, though the memory of him attending her was appalling after she felt well again. He was so soothing, so comforting. He would have made a wonderful doctor, she reflected wearily. But it seemed that instead he was a man of the sea. 8 The first week out of San Francisco neither Cheney nor Nia had been ill at all as the Brynn Annalea glided smoothly south. But the second week, while the ship ran before the stiff twenty- or-so-knot winds, both of them were so seasick that they had to stay in their bunks all the time. Shiloh took care of both of them, much to Cheney’s comfort and Nia’s horror. Twice Nia tried to get up, but she fell and then tried to crawl, apparently intending to go into the adjoining cabin where Cheney lay like a dead thing. Shiloh threatened to tie Nia to her bunk, so she gave up. They reached Panama City on a cool April night in 1868, with a hazy full moon that seemed to float just above the horizon. 6 Lynn Morris Shiloh regretted that Cheney couldn’t enjoy the evening and the memories with him, but she was so weak she only seemed to reach semiconsciousness. He also knew that they couldn’t afford to lin- ger long in the lovely old village, for if Cheney and Nia were on land long enough to get their “land legs,” they’d get seasick all over again once they were back at sea. This way the seasickness might, as it so often did, run its course and mysteriously disappear. Shiloh carried Cheney onto the train, and one of his sailors carried Nia. Cheney never even saw the Panamanian jungle where she and Shiloh had had such an amazing adventure three years before. They crossed the isthmus in record time, and the Steens’ clipper Maid of the Caribbean lolled along the dock at Aspinwall, faithfully waiting for them. They caught the northeast trades full force, and the clipper sped north. 8 “That color makes your complexion look a little better,” Nia said comfortingly. “Oh? You mean a gentle moss-green instead of puce?” Cheney asked caustically. “Mm,” Nia replied noncommittally. She frowned as she ran a brush through Cheney’s hair, never an easy task. Her thick, waist- length auburn hair had a decided curl to it and normally was shiny and full of body. Now it was matted and dull, and it seemed that a lot of it was breaking off in the brush. “Mr. Irons-Winslow says it’s going to rain. I think I’ll ask him to catch some clean rainwater to wash—” “Rain! You mean storm?” Cheney asked fearfully. “Calm down, Miss Cheney. I don’t think so. I think just rain, like a summer shower,” Nia said soothingly. “You don’t have to be afraid, you know. It seems like Mr. Irons-Winslow knows what he’s doing, sailing the ship and finding the way and all.” Driven with the Wind 7 Cheney managed a weak smile. “Oh, I’m not afraid of the ship going down in a storm, Nia. I’m just afraid that I’ll get seasick again—and this time not die.” Nia nodded with chagrin. “ ’Fraid I agree with you there, Miss Cheney. Why can’t doctors find a cure for seasickness?” “If I sail much more in my life,” Cheney said forcefully, “I shall dedicate myself to doing just that. Are you finished, Nia? Yes, you’re finished. Give it up. This is the best I’m going to look, I’m afraid.” Nia studied her critically. She didn’t look as fine as when she was in the full vigor of health, but she still looked lovely. Cheney was tall and slim and lithe, with long white fingers and a grace- ful neck and carriage. Her eyes, usually a sparkling green, were a little dull, perhaps, and she didn’t glow with health and vitality as she normally did. The deep maroon dress brightened her eyes a little, and the fall of ecru lace at the high neckline softened her rather pasty complexion. “The hat. Yes, the one with the net veil. And here, Miss Cheney, use the rose-colored parasol. The shadow of it will hide some of that paleness . well, maybe a little rouge too.” “In broad daylight? Shocking, Nia,” Cheney teased. “No, you looking like a haint is shocking,” Nia said firmly, brushing an air-thin layer of coral-tinted rouge on Cheney’s pro- nounced cheekbones. “Well, at least you don’t look quite so dead.” “Thank you so much,” Cheney said tartly. “Why don’t you come up with me, Nia? I know you need some fresh air and sun- light too.” “I’ll come. But right now I know Mr. Irons-Winslow wants to talk to you.” Cheney, who was already out the door, turned quickly. “What? What do you mean?” But Nia merely pressed her lips together and shook her head. Cheney hurried to the upper deck, squinting in the bright sunshine that she hadn’t seen for forever, it seemed.