Gallant Match Read online

  His slow-drawn breath burned in his lungs with furnace heat. Then he set her from him.

  “Listen to me,” he said, his voice husky yet lethal in its seriousness, “because I won’t be saying it again. I’ll not allow you to use any man on this ship to make good your escape. If you want to cause the death of any one of them, then tempt them and set them against me and I will oblige you. We are going to Vera Cruz, you and I. The only male who will be on any kind of close terms with you is the one you’re looking at right now. Forget it, and I refuse to be responsible for what happens.”

  “Close terms,” she repeated as if the words were in a foreign tongue.

  “Talking, walking, dancing, always beside you morning, noon and, especially, nighttime.”

  “And nothing else?”

  Calculation was rising in her eyes, for he caught its cool gleam. He saw and chose to ignore it. “Nothing else. I will deliver Rouillard his bride, one unharmed, unsullied and unrepentant. Whether the rest of the trip turns out uncomfortable is up to you.”

  Her chin rose to a pugnacious angle. “You’re very sure of yourself for a man who has just indulged in something requiring more closeness than mere idle flirtation.”

  “If I choose to flirt with you, Mademoiselle Bonneval,” he said in soft promise, “the last thing it will be is idle.”

  She moved not a muscle, yet her features congealed into such hauteur that he felt a distinct shiver run down his spine. “If you choose, monsieur?”

  “Don’t let the prospect trouble you. I’m not that reckless or that much of a fool. More than that, I took your father’s commission, shook his hand on it, and I keep my word.”

  “How very noble. You do realize such nobility can have its price?”

  What was going on behind the sea-blue shadows of her eyes with their shading of purple darkness? He’d give his right arm to know, even if something told him he’d not like it worth a damn. “I’ve noted it every time I’ve faced a man on the dueling field, mademoiselle. And the price for some gestures can be higher than others.”

  “You have no idea how high it can be. Not yet.”

  She turned and left him with those words ringing in his ears, making her way down the passage in an oddly graceful zigzag progress that followed the tilting of the carpeted floor beneath her feet. He watched her go with narrowed eyes, and felt, suddenly, a hollow ache in his chest where his heart should be.

  Fifteen

  Dawn brought fog and more rolling seas, but at least the howling wind and rain seemed to have passed them by. The rigging still splattered water down onto the wet planking and dripping rails, the occasional thunderous clap of the sails that aided the steam engine sent mist flying behind them, but the seas were calmer.

  Kerr stood swaying to the ship’s movement, his hands braced on the railing. He drew the storm-washed air deep into his lungs, feeling it oust the queasiness caused by rougher water. He’d never make a deepwater sailor, but that was fine since he was a farmer at heart like his father and grandfather before him.

  He was certainly more of a planter than Tremont, in fact. A question here and there while they played cards had made that clear.

  The boxes of armaments below, and what would become of them, slid across his mind, and he grimaced. He’d waited to see if Tremont would mention his inspection. So far, it hadn’t happened.

  The arms would have to be reported. Question was, to what authority? There was no American envoy in Vera Cruz since Slidell had been turned back from the port. Who did that leave?

  Kerr could think of no one at the moment. He’d keep a watch on the cargo when they landed, make certain someone didn’t spirit it away before the situation could be cleared up. Whether it would be by Tremont or someone entirely different remained to be seen.

  A shrieking cry from overhead drew his attention. It came from a seagull that circled the mast then drifted down to roost on a crosspiece. It was followed by three more, like bits of swooping silver against the sky. They signaled land, and he turned to squint into the fog-shrouded distance at a blur that could be low-lying clouds but was most likely the Mexican coastline. They had made good time due to the storm wind on their beam. With luck, they would be in Vera Cruz in a couple of days, maybe less.

  He couldn’t wait.

  A yawn caught him unaware, almost cracking his jaws. He might as well not have gone to his bunk last night after leaving Sonia. He’d lain staring into the heaving darkness, listening to the rush of the sea along the hull, the hiss of steam through the pipes below, and particularly the monotonous thump of the crankshaft. That steady beat was maddening in its rhythm, its hard and endless thrust homeward followed by withdrawal. It matched his more primitive impulses far too exactly for comfort, torturing him with images and impulses concerning the woman in his care that were something less than protective.

  Dear God, but she could get under his skin. She was annoying but fascinating, part spoiled darling and part lioness, genteel lady and Lorelei. The pale and tender valley between her breasts lingered in his mind like a heavenly vision; her scent haunted him. The shape of her shoulders, the turn of her waist that fit his hand so perfectly, the delicate shadow cast on her cheekbones by her lashes—these images and a dozen more of similar nature played in his mind’s eye like a magiclantern show. And any one of them was capable of throwing him into such rampant lust that he hovered on the brink of social embarrassment.

  He’d once had more control. What had become of it?

  The wind buffeted the skirt of his frock coat, slapping it against the railing where he stood. Something heavy in the pocket bumped the support post then banged against his thigh. As he reached deep for it, the first thing he came across was his ivory-handled pocketknife. He tucked that into his trouser pocket then dived down again to draw out Sonia’s fan he’d captured. As he spread the sticks, the ghost of her violet scent assailed him. The thin fabric of it, unfolding, fluttered in his hands like the wings of a butterfly, the silken span quivering in the wind as if it tried to break free of his hold.

  Freedom.

  That was all Sonia wanted, or so she said. And who could blame her? It was what he craved himself, the freedom to get on with his life that he’d finally earn by running to ground the man who’d caused his brother’s death. He had been on the trail so long it seemed the end might never come. It had felt at times like an aim as impractical as the one that drove Sonia.

  Somewhere behind him, a door creaked open, followed by footsteps on the decking. There was no mistaking that light tread. Kerr snapped the fan closed while concealing the movement with his body, and buried it in its hiding place. By the time Sonia came to a halt a few feet down the railing, his hands rested on the long stretch of polished teak.

  “You’re up early,” she said, her voice light, even if not quite friendly.

  “Makes two of us.” Kerr discounted the presence of the watch since he doubted she took them into account.

  “I trust you’ll be able to face breakfast now the seas are calmer.”

  “Could be.”

  She sent him a quick glance, as if to judge his mood. “I confess I was almost glad to know you have some small weakness in that area.”

  “Were you now?”

  “It makes you more…approachable. You are rather daunting, you know.”

  He would like to tell her that she could approach at any time but it seemed unlikely to improve matters. “I wouldn’t make too much of it. It changes nothing.”

  “So I apprehend after last night. Your arrival was timely, even if you were unwell.” She paused. “I don’t believe I thanked you for resolving what had become a…distressing situation.”

  “It’s what I hired on for.”

  “So you said before.” Her tone verged on sharpness before she stopped, drew breath with a sound of tried patience and went on again. “I do appreciate being removed from it, no matter the reason. I’m also thankful for your patience toward Monsieur Pradat. That was well done.”
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  He turned his head to look at her while grimly aware of his pleasure at the respect in her voice, and the approval. “You think so.”

  “Without it, you might be defending yourself here with sword in hand at this moment.”

  “I’d have thought you’d enjoy that prospect.”

  A small shudder ran over her, one that appeared entirely natural. “Your mistake, monsieur. I abhor even the idea of sword fighting.”

  What was she up to now? It was something; he didn’t doubt that for a minute. Trouble was, the idea of meeting it felt a lot like facing a worthy opponent on the fencing strip. The challenge sent the blood boiling through his veins and turned every muscle in his body iron-hard with determination.

  “Sword fighting in general,” he asked, shifting to face her with one elbow on the railing, “or only as it applies to me?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “The sentiment does you credit. I’m sure Pradat would appreciate it.”

  She gave him a frowning glance. “You don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you’re reluctant to cause injury to your young gallant.”

  “You needn’t sneer at him. He was only attempting to ensure proper conduct toward a lady.”

  “I realized that at the time, which is why I intervened. What I don’t understand is why it was necessary.”

  Disdain flashed in her eyes. “You can’t actually think he had cause?”

  “What I think doesn’t matter. The affair is between you and your conscience.”

  “It was the storm, I promise you. Monsieur Tremont joined me on the bench just as the ship rolled and—” She stopped, looking away from him while hot color flushed her cheekbones and her gloved fingers gripped the railing. “I would not have you think I am so careless of my good name, or that you must report misconduct to Jean Pierre.”

  “Now wait a minute,” he began, straightening to his full height as anger stirred inside him.

  “You are going to say you would not do that?” She sent him the briefest of looks before returning her attention to the sea. “Well enough. Let us cry quits then. I don’t care to quarrel with you any longer.”

  He had not expected such an easy victory. He waited for gratification, but it didn’t come. With some surprise, he realized his main feeling was disappointment that their sparring might be at an end. That was less than wholehearted, however, since beneath it ran a vein of pure suspicion.

  She gave him no time to dwell on it. Turning toward him so her skirts brushed the polished vamps of his boots, she studied him. “You are not a very talkative man, are you?”

  “I talk when I have something to say.”

  “But you aren’t fond of conversation for its own sake, the exchange of ideas or small talk simply to pass the time.”

  “Don’t have much use for it.”

  “So I apprehend,” she said, her voice bone-dry. “But you have no objection, surely, to a question or two?”

  He shrugged. “As long as you don’t expect fancy answers or high-flown compliments.”

  “Neither is required, but only honesty.” She went on before he could comment on the implied slur upon his integrity. “Will you be returning to New Orleans? That is, have you no plans to remain in Mexico?”

  “Depends.”

  “Upon what? The war, perhaps? Or is it a question of money and opportunity?”

  “On what I find when I get there.”

  “What do you expect?”

  “A meeting with a man I’ve been in search of for some time.”

  She frowned at him. “By meeting, do you refer to an ordinary call upon him or something more…fatal?”

  “Depends,” he answered again at his most laconic.

  “I take it you would rather not say.” She paused, waiting. When he made no answer, her lips tightened and she tried another venture. “Are you alone in the world that you can come and go with so little regard for who might be waiting elsewhere?”

  “If you’re asking whether I’m married…”

  “Certainly not!”

  “I’m not,” he went on as if she had not spoken. “I’ve been on my own since I was old enough to leave home, but have the usual set of family members—father, six brothers, a whole passel of aunts, uncles and cousins.”

  “They will all be back home in Kentucky?”

  “Here and there over the state and in Tennessee.”

  “You didn’t mention your mother.”

  “She and my father, my pa, live apart.”

  “Do they? He must be your pattern card for behavior as she could not remain with him.” She closed her eyes with a quick grimace. “I’m sorry. That was unkind.”

  She was attempting to be conciliatory. Kerr’s guard went up another notch even as he studied the soft color that mantled her fine-grained skin; the way a cat’s paw of a breeze flattened her bodice against the soft curves of her breasts. Looking away abruptly, he replied, “You may be right. She blamed him for my brother Andrew’s death on the march to Santa Fe. He and our pa were always at loggerheads. Andrew tore out of the house after the last shouting match came to blows. He wound up in Texas.”

  “You followed after him, so it seems.”

  “You might say that. I set out for Texas when he didn’t come back.”

  “How did you arrive in New Orleans?”

  He hesitated, tempted to tell her the whole sorry tale, including the letter from Andrew that had set him on Rouillard’s trail. It could be so easily used against him, however, and reticence was a hard habit to break. A half truth seemed the better choice. “It’s a place I’d wanted to see since I was knee-high to a jackrabbit. Pa used to talk about it around the fire on winter nights. He was with Jackson when he came down to fight the British back in fifteen, his one big adventure. He never forgot the place or the people.”

  “He knew Andrew Jackson?”

  Kerr tipped his head in assent. “Ol’ Hickory himself. They were neighbors in Tennessee at the time, though my pa left the family place and moved west after he married, bought acreage of his own in Kentucky.”

  “He bought a place.”

  “You needn’t sound so surprised,” he said, though it pleased him to see the perplexity in her face as she took in the fact that the life of a sword master might be a choice for him instead of a necessity.

  “I suppose he farmed.”

  “Some, though he mostly raised horses, purebred racing stock. He and Jackson exchanged breeding animals on occasion.”

  “So you belong to the landed gentry.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.” He gave a brief shrug. “Wasn’t exactly born in a log cabin, either.”

  She stared at him as if he had sprouted horns, though what she might have said in answer was lost as the watch bells rang out. Since they also signaled breakfast, he offered his arm to lead her below. That she took it was more a symptom of her preoccupation, he thought, than a sign that she accepted his escort. It felt like a victory anyway.

  The dining salon had been set to rights after the debacle of the night before. Quite a few passengers seemed to have recovered from their seasickness; at least they straggled into the long room to face whatever fare was on offer. Among them was Sonia’s tante Lily, looking washed-out but determined to perform her duty toward her niece. Madame Pradat bristled with disapproval as she followed Kerr’s progress with Sonia toward a seat next to her aunt. Her son, at the lady’s side, avoided looking in Kerr’s direction though the tops of his ears turned the color of brandied plums. On the opposite end of the table, Tremont and the Reverend Smythe discussed tides and ocean currents, but that did not prevent the planter from inclining his head in ironic acknowledgment of his entrance with Sonia. Other passengers greeted their arrival with a beehive murmur of comment that all too obviously concerned the events of the night before. Sonia gave no sign that she noticed, though her voice was stilted as she made some light comment about the aroma of morning coffee.

  Kerr seated his charge
next to her aunt then rounded the end of the table to take the bench facing her. It was a compromise of sorts, one that avoided the appearance of familiarity that might come from seating himself beside her yet allowed him to discourage anyone else from assuming that place.

  The dining-room stewardess, her moon face still sallow and mouth grim, arrived with platters laden with hard rolls, ham, conserves in crystal pots and butter shaped to resemble seashells. To this was added the usual café au lait. Within moments, all conversation died away as appetites depressed by the storm revived with the ship’s relative stability.

  Kerr would not have been surprised at some repercussions from the near duel, a tedious scene of contrition and apology enacted by Gervaise Pradat, maybe, or a social cut by his proud maman. Yes, or even a supercilious comment on his dog-in-the-manger attitude from Tremont.

  It didn’t happen. He was just congratulating himself on the prospect of a peaceful breakfast when Sonia reached across the table to take one of his breakfast rolls. Breaking it in half, she buttered a portion and put it back on his plate. Leaning back where she sat across from him, she ate the other half with delicate nibbles while smiling into his eyes.

  Kerr almost choked on the bite of ham he’d just put in his mouth.

  “Are you all right, mon cher?” she inquired with spurious concern as she reached for his water tumbler. “Here, you should drink something.”

  His fingers brushed hers as he took the glass from her. He felt as if he’d been stung by an electric eel. Setting the glass down again without tasting the contents, he sent her a warning glance.

  If she recognized it, the effect was nil. Gently, so gently he could not swear he actually felt it, she reached with the toe of her slipper and caressed the booted calf of his leg. He swallowed hard while heat ran up his spine, blazing across the back of his neck with such intensity that he thought his collar and cravat might catch fire. “Mademoiselle,” he began.