Gallant Match Page 12

  Kerr eased crablike down one aisle with his back to what felt like grass sacks packed with dried corn. At a corner, he paused, moved forward a step.

  Instantly, he whipped back again.

  Someone was in the hold with him. A seaman, maybe, sent to inspect the cargo against shifting before they reached rougher water? Impossible to say, but he wasn’t inclined to explain his snooping.

  Whoever it was appeared to be going at a crate or box with a crowbar. The quiet shriek of nails being dragged slowly from wood was easy enough to recognize.

  The man kept at his job, apparently unaware he had company. Kerr stepped backward, reversing his path, taking a different aisle as he sought out the sound. He moved with greater care as it grew louder, also as he caught the faint gleam of a shuttered lantern. Reaching a corner behind the worker, he stopped. He eased forward with care, leaning just enough to see.

  It was no seaman who pried at the long, narrow crate that topped the stack of similar boxes. The swing of a skirted frock coat and sheen of polished boots marked him as a gentleman. His back was to Kerr, but his face gleamed with sweat and the curses he muttered under his breath were as inventive as they were rough.

  The wooden box top gave with a splintering shriek. The man went still, his head cocked, listening. Long seconds passed. Finally, he lowered his crowbar, dragged off the lid. With a soft whistle of appreciation, he dug his hands into loose packing straw and lifted out a rifle. Turning his upper body, he held the weapon to the faint lantern light.

  Tremont.

  Kerr had not expected it. A frown pleated his forehead as he considered the concern he’d heard in the man’s voice when he first mentioned the shipment. Something didn’t quite fit. Was the planter as surprised as he sounded, or only appreciative of the weapon he inspected? Had he mentioned the arms earlier as a concerned citizen, or only because he knew Kerr had seen them loaded and he meant to disclaim any connection?

  This wasn’t the time to get to the bottom of it, Kerr thought, nor was it his place. Captain Frazier could handle the situation when they reached port. That was assuming, of course, that the captain wasn’t in on the deal.

  Easing backward, Kerr retraced his footsteps to the cargo hatch. He was soon dawdling along the promenade deck once more.

  It might have been a half hour later when the ship began to dance upon the waves to a stronger rhythm. They were drawing nearer the gulf, though still somewhat protected by the last trailing fingers of marshland. Kerr moved nearer the prow.

  As if attracted by the sea change, someone stepped out onto the deck just down from where he stood. The light from inside silhouetted a female shape. The pale skirts that flapped around her in the wind of their passage could have belonged to anyone, but he knew only one lady who might brave this midnight hour on deck. More than that, some primeval knowledge tightened his stomach muscles into knots, allowing him to recognize her with an instinct he had not known he possessed.

  She had not seen him there in the shadows, he was almost sure of it. Should he make his presence known or leave her to her solitude? It was difficult to say with Mademoiselle Bonneval.

  She appeared pensive as she stood running the fingers of one hand back and forth in the blown spray that dampened the railing. He wondered what was in her mind, whether dread of what lay ahead or yearning for what lay behind. Surely she was not so downhearted that jumping could seem the way out, not here, not now?

  No, the fighting spirit burned too hot inside her. She also had sense enough to realize there was no place to go even if she made dry land. Yet rousing her from her low mood might be a good thing, even if fury at him must take its place.

  Pushing away from where he propped up the bulkhead with his shoulders, he walked toward her with a lounging stride. “You run through the whole gamut of dancing partners already? Or is it just that none are up to your standards?”

  She whirled to face him. Her expression was merely startled rather than shocked or frightened, which led him to think she expected him to be about somewhere. That struck him as a good thing.

  “You can have no idea of my standards.” The words were quiet, her features guarded.

  “I know they can’t be low since you despise me.”

  “I don’t—” she began.

  “They have to be high or you would be wed by now.”

  “I told you the reasons for that.”

  “So you did. Your Bernard was fine and noble, I’m sure. I wonder if Gervaise Pradat is like him, if that’s why you struck up a friendship with him so fast. Or was it to spite me?”

  “Your conceit is beyond anything if you think my conduct has any bearing on you,” she said in acid rejection. “Why should I care what you may think? Or what you may say or do, for that matter?”

  “Now, there is a question, isn’t it? But you might want to take it into account unless you’re prepared to leave a litter of dead bodies in your wake.”

  “I haven’t the least idea what you mean.”

  Her gaze was so frigid there in the starlit dimness that it should have chilled him to the bone. That was better than her dejection, in Kerr’s considered opinion.

  “Gervaise Pradat is precisely the kind of young idiot who would think it fine and noble to spring to your aid if convinced you were being wronged by someone, namely me. To draw him into our quarrel was shortsighted. That is, unless you don’t care if I run my sword through him.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Only if forced to it by whatever you may do or say.”

  “I would never instigate such a thing.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. You will, in that case, do everything possible to keep him from offering me a challenge. Well, or an insult I’ll have to respond to with one of my own.”

  “That’s all well and good, but you should refrain from conduct which might lead in that direction.”

  It was his turn to scowl. “Meaning?”

  “The little byplay of yours when you picked up my fan—which I must ask you to return.”

  “Which byplay is this?” He was intrigued by what had every appearance of high color burning on the pale contours of her face. The question of the fan he ignored completely though that bit of feminine frippery weighted his frock-coat pocket.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “You…you touched me. You know you did. Through my skirts.”

  “Why, Mademoiselle Bonneval, what are you accusing me of?” He was enjoying this far too much, he knew. Withdrawing immediately would be his best bet. Yet the flash of her eyes and quick rise and fall of the white curves of her breasts under her silk bodice were too enticing. More than that, she made teasing her so rewarding. He could no more resist than he could stop breathing.

  “Nothing. It was done only to annoy me, as I am well aware. But you can’t be surprised if another admirer chances to take issue with it.”

  “Another admirer, is it?”

  She gave him a glare of exasperation, though her features seemed to have taken on a deeper color. “An admirer, period. I do realize you are not in that camp.”

  “Just so,” he agreed, inclining his head. “As to my…encroachments, I will promise to be more discreet. Will that suffice?”

  “By no means.”

  “You don’t want me to be discreet?”

  “You are not to encroach! You are not to touch me at all. Do you understand?”

  Oh, he understood all right, but some devil inside him refused to make the concession.

  It was not required. With the inevitability of tides and timing, they finally left the Mississippi behind at that moment, broaching the first swells of the gulf. These were sizable where they clashed with the great river’s final surge into the sea.

  Sonia’s attention was on him instead of the water. As the ship lifted with the first wave, she tottered a step in her heeled slippers, trying to keep her balance.

  There was only one thing to be done. With a t
ight grin curving his mouth, Kerr clamped one hand to the railing beside him and snagged her narrow waist with the other. Contracting muscles gone suddenly as hard as steel, he snatched her against him.

  She was a glorious armful in her silk and lace and whalebone, delicious with the scent of violets, fresh sea air and warm female. She went to his head like the finest cognac, tripping impulses he hardly knew he possessed. He wanted to plunder her mouth, to taste the very essence of her. He would give his soul for the right to take her below to some private cabin and peel away all the feminine furbelows that protected her. He longed to hold her as she turned to him, naked, willing and languid in her passion. He yearned to trace with hands, lips and tongue every sweet curve and delectable hollow of her body, delicately questing while she panted, writhing with need in his arms. Need of him.

  Her eyes were darkly mysterious, her face was open and vulnerable, her lips parted with unconscious enticement. Her heart throbbed against the wall of his chest, between the resilient mounds of her breasts.

  She was temptation personified.

  She was forbidden to him.

  The effort required to release her strained sinew, made rigid muscles creak with protest. He did it because he must, because he had taken on a commission and would not abandon it, because she was likely to scream and demand he be clapped in irons if he didn’t. He did it because it was right.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, when she stood on her own feet once more, holding to the railing for support.

  Kerr gave her a truncated bow of acknowledgment though uncertain whether her gratitude was for saving her from a fall or for abandoning his more ferocious impulses. That she suspected them, he had no doubt. She was neither stupid nor insensitive. He could only hope she was not so desperate for escape that she thought to forge them into a weapon against him.

  It cost nothing to hope.

  He watched her turn away without another word between them, moving toward the companionway that led to her cabin. Only when she disappeared from sight did he swing back to the railing, grasping its chill, damp wood with hard hands while he stared into the darkness. Ahead of him lay the black and heaving surface of the sea and the limitless horizon.

  Oh, yes, and Mexico, where Rouillard waited for his bride.

  Twelve

  On the morning following the Lime Rock’s entrance into the gulf, Tante Lily refused to rise from her bunk. It was more than her usual inclination to lie abed until well after breakfast. Moaning about the terrible wallowing of the ship and her imminent death from mal de mer, she squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face to the wall.

  Sonia did everything in her power to make her aunt more comfortable, bathing her face with a cool cloth, holding the china slop jar while she was thoroughly ill, bringing watered wine and dry biscuits to help settle her stomach. Nothing made any difference. When she offered to rub her aunt’s temples with perfume, Tante Lily begged her to go away and stop tormenting her so she could die in peace. Sonia complied, since it seemed she might rest better if left alone.

  The fresh wind sweeping along the deck was a vivid reminder of how close and noxious the air had become below. Sonia stood breathing it with gratitude while watching the steady rise and fall of the horizon with the ship’s movement. The motion caused her no discomfort. Truth to tell, she enjoyed it. The deep blue waves that stretched to the horizon also pleased her. There was a profound sense of peace in their eternal movement and the light that danced over them.

  It was impossible to sink into true reverie, however. She was too aware that Kerr could appear at any moment. She wasn’t anxious to face him after the night before. It had to happen sometime, but the longer she could put it off, the happier she would be.

  How the man unsettled her. She would like to think it was deliberate. The turmoil that shook her to her feminine core when he was near would be more excusable then. She was sure that brand of practiced seduction had never crossed his mind, however. As with last night, he simply responded to the moment.

  So had she, and far too easily.

  The feel of his arm around her, the unfaltering strength of his hold and incredible security of being caught against him had seeped into her dreams during the night. The promise of sweet, hot bliss had been there as well, beckoning with painful intensity. She feared she might have surrendered in sleeping fantasy but could not be sure, refused to be sure. Still, the urgency of the need had returned since she was awake, as it did now while she stood near where it had happened, as she breathed salt-flavored air into her lungs and felt the soft sea breeze in her face.

  It would not do. She shook her head, forcing such visions from her.

  She must keep her mind on what lay ahead, when she reached Vera Cruz. Three possibilities existed, as far as she could see. The first was simply to do nothing and hope that Jean Pierre had changed his mind. Second, she could attempt to elude her escort in the confusion of docking, hiding away until she could arrange passage to Mobile. Finally, she could allow herself to be escorted to her new home while trusting some avenue of escape would present itself once Kerr had gone.

  Of the two men, Jean Pierre and Kerr, she fancied her future husband should be easier to deceive. He would not dream she objected to the match, so was unlikely to be on his guard.

  That was, of course, unless her father had sent some advance warning along with the message to expect her arrival. The possibility of an alliance had been explained to her months ago, before Christmas, along with instructions to complete the trousseau that every young girl began to collect the moment she was born. She could not think that had been the first her father knew of it. There would have been negotiations concerning her dowry, terms and agreements sent back and forth about her personal allowance, the budget for housekeeping, the allocation of her property and the sum that would come to her one day by inheritance. Yes, her recalcitrance could easily have been mentioned at some point.

  What if Jean Pierre met her at the docks and hustled her off to the church and a priest? That would be the end of it, the end of everything.

  “Good day, mademoiselle.”

  She turned with a start to greet Alexander Tremont as he strolled toward her. Hatless in deference to the brisk wind, he touched his brow in token of what would have been removal of his headgear in her presence. He was dressed in shades of brown and cream, the only discordant note being orange flowers embroidered among the trailing vines on his waistcoat.

  “I understand from the dining-salon steward that your aunt may be a bit under the weather.”

  His smile was as warm as the look in his dark eyes as they moved over her. It was a shade too calculating, Sonia thought, his perusal of her form beneath the sea-blue poplin of her day gown a little too comprehensive. “A touch of seasickness,” she replied. “I’m sure she will soon recover.”

  “In the meantime, you are also without your large, sword-wielding protector. Perhaps you will allow me to keep you company. I could read to you, sort your embroidery silks or some such task. Oh, and pick up whatever you drop.”

  “I don’t expect to be clumsy today.”

  Amused comprehension curved to his lips. “A great disappointment, but I’ll survive it. As long, that is, as Monsieur Wallace remains at cards in the gentleman’s parlor.”

  “Is that where he is? I did wonder.”

  “No doubt you did, having grown used to walking in his sizable shadow. May I ask…? But, no, it’s none of my affair.”

  “What isn’t?”

  He seemed to take that as permission to continue. “If the gentleman isn’t related, perhaps he’s a friend of your father’s that he’s entrusted with your welfare?”

  “By no means.”

  “I will admit it seemed unlikely. On the other hand, he’s hardly the sort to hire out his services.”

  “What sort would he be instead?” She searched his face even as she tried valiantly to remain unmoved by the thought of how she and Kerr had met, and all that had happened since that moment.


  “Independent, able beyond most, a commanding personality—”

  “Ruthless, stubborn to the point of pigheadedness,” she supplied.

  Tremont accepted her additions with a brief inclination of his head. “His size must give him a fearsome presence on the fencing strip. His concentration would be hard to match as well. I’d have thought his salon would be overrun with clients.”

  “Assuming he has any skill with a sword.”

  “That’s a given. I mean to say, he’d not have earned a place on the Passage de la Bourse otherwise.”

  She hesitated then plunged ahead with the question in her mind. “You seem to have some knowledge of swordplay, monsieur. Have you perhaps spent time in the Passage?”

  “I can claim some small facility, though it was gained in other venues.”

  “So you have never faced Monsieur Wallace with sword in hand.”

  “Thankfully, no.” His expression turned wry and he averted his gaze to the sea around them. “It was more than enough to face him over the card table this morning.”

  It was a change of subject, but she was inclined to allow it. “He defeated you there, did he?”

  “Let us add the devil’s own luck to the list of his assets. But my question is why he is here with you. With all due respect for your charm and beauty, it’s difficult to understand what attracted him to the post.”

  “He’s being well paid for his trouble.”

  “Yet will almost certainly lose as much or more in the time spent away from his salon.”

  It was a point she had not considered. Resentment had kept her from any attempt to understand Kerr Wallace’s presence. She essayed it now with some reluctance.

  Why had Kerr applied for the position as her escort? It was nothing personal she was certain. He had hardly been aware of her existence before arriving at the town house, and she had known nothing of him beyond mention of his name as a notorious sword master. If her father was acquainted with him at all, she had no knowledge of it, and nothing in their manner at that first meeting suggested it.