Shears. The image sent a coldness racing through him.
Even though twenty years had passed since he’d last seen that nightmare of an orphan asylum, moisture formed on Brogan’s brow. The sharp clip of the steel blades rang in his memory. The cruel, ragged chopping of his hair, meant to disfigure and humiliate. A much-dreaded, oft-repeated punishment and a warning to any other child who dared defy authority.
He had been signaled out as rebellious, punished for his inability to succumb to the despair of his ill birth, for the fire in his heart that raged against injustice, and sometimes to the extent of a bleeding scalp.
Never since had Brogan allowed anyone near his head with a sharp instrument. Whenever his hair became too ungainly, he would lop off an inch or two by his own hand.
“I promise it won’t hurt a bit, Captain,” Mrs. Culliford encouraged sweetly.
Brogan reminded himself he had nothing to fear from this petite, gentle housekeeper. And a respectable appearance couldn’t hurt his meeting with Nathaniel Huntley. If his little mite of a son could survive a hair trim, so could he. They were bred of the same stock.
Today he’d put the ugliness of the past to rest. Abigail. The orphan asylum. Painful memories. They couldn’t hurt him.
Chuckling, he gave the lad’s head a tousle. “We’ll do this together, aye? Get a trimming and make a good showing for Mr. Huntley.” Then to the housekeeper he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Culliford. I would be pleased to join you.”
She smiled as though delighted to be able to do this small kindness for him.
The dear woman had no idea how great a kindness.
A platter of crisped bacon and sausages balanced in her hands, Lorena bid farewell to Brogan’s shaggy blond mane as she watched him push the breadboard table off to one side, transforming the summer kitchen into a barber shop.
Such a dashing fellow could well afford to wear his hair in any style he chose, and if he preferred a more fashionable length—well, all the good for it.
And convenient, because this meant that Brogan would be otherwise occupied when her father arrived. She had to prepare Papa. Her stomach twisted awaiting his arrival, knowing what damage could be wrought from the truth. Brogan deserved nothing less, but the man she had come to know and love was not likely to walk away from such a confrontation with her father unscathed.
Lorena shuddered, departing with her platter to the main house. Temperance arranged the fare on the sideboard while Lorena laid the table, until an unmistakable commotion in the front hall caused her to drop what she was doing.
“Children!” her father called. “Children, I’m here. Lorena? Drew? Where are you?”
Lorena hurried from the room to join him in the foyer. Papa stood on the Oriental rug before the opened black-lacquered door, through which could be seen a vista of the bay and Brogan’s three-masted Yankee Heart. He appeared dusty from his travels, even fatigued from the heat. His buff-colored beaver hat tipped precariously to one side, and as he reached up to remove it, his eyes shone with tears.
“Oh, my darling child.”
Lorena rushed into his outstretched arms. He pressed his cheek to hers, and she felt a little girl again, hungry for her papa’s embrace, comforted by the quiet strength of his voice and the soft brush of graying whiskers that grew low in front of his ears.
“Are you well? Were you harmed?” Papa stepped back, holding her at arm’s length and assessing her with a long, loving stare.
Lorena smiled, blinking back tears. “I’m well. Very well. Better than when I left, in fact.”
“I’ve been lost without you, Lorena. I’ve paced the wharf every day, watching and waiting for your return.” He frowned in a despairing way that Lorena found endearing. Tell me, how did it happen, you getting stuck on that brig? And the letter from George. I don’t understand.”
Lorena explained.
“Vomit powder! Why, if I am not the biggest fool to ever breathe sea air. And to think I trusted George. I trained and encouraged him. He grew into a superb architect. I was proud. I knew of his feelings for you, even gave him my blessing. All the while I never suspected what harm . . .”
Papa shook his head as though to clear the direction of his thoughts. “Well, you are home safe now, thanks be to God and the decency of Captain Talvis.” He searched the hallway toward the back of the house. “Where is he? And where is Drew, that little rascal? Wait till he sees the collection of stones I’ve been gathering for him.”