He offered his arm and she took it, the action so natural, so right. They walked in silence for a moment before she spoke.
“I’m sorry you’ve had to keep that man so long. I thought you’d have been free of him days ago.”
“It’s been no bother. The Arianna needed some repairs. Benjamin’s had a few extra days to reflect upon his sins.”
She laughed softly. “Somehow I don’t think he’s given much to self-reflection.”
Ford chuckled in return. “Perhaps not.” They were nearing her bundle of shoes and gloves and he paused, turning to face her. “I promise you will never see Benjamin again.”
She frowned. “I don’t want him killed. I’ll not have his blood on my hands. It--I think it would taint all I’ve done to survive.”
He touched a calloused finger to her lips, more because he wanted to kiss her again rather than to silence her. Her eyes widened at the touch.
“Benjamin will not be a passenger. He’ll be made to work. The captain of the Arianna is short on crew. Once he’s transferred in Brazil, his shiphand instruction will no doubt continue. By the time they reach Australia, he’ll never wish to see a ship again. I promise.”
She nodded, her lips puckering. He realized his finger was still on them and this was her substitute for kissing him. The movement was nearly his undoing. He glanced back to the boulders with the notion of returning there for another clandestine embrace.
“I must go,” she whispered against his fingers with a soft laugh.
He nodded and dropped his hand. He helped her balance as she put on her shoes. She tied her bonnet beneath her chin and he tucked in the errant strands of hair.
“Will I do?” she asked flirtatiously. It was so different from her normal reserve that it made him smile.
“You’ll do,” he said meaningfully, and saw her eyes widen again. It was hard to tell if she flushed as her face was now shaded by the deep brim of her bonnet, but he thought she seemed pleased.
“Shall I escort you home?” he asked, loathe to part company.
She smiled a wide, carefree smile. “It’s not far. I can make it.”
He nodded and watched her turn to go. She had only taken two steps when she turned back.
“This has become my favorite beach. I believe I’ll walk here again on Tuesday afternoon.”
“What a coincidence,” he said, failing to suppress a grin. “That is when my next visit is planned.”
“How fortuitous,” she quipped.
He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she climbed the path that led off the beach, then returned to the warehouse to cancel his Tuesday afternoon plans.
Ford made sure to deliver a few choice threats to Jeremiah Benjamin before he delivered him to the captain of the Arianna the next day and warned the captain that Benjamin had a history of jumping ship.
“Spooner, you worry too much,” the captain said with a joviality that completely belied the man’s well-known ruthlessness. “Men only leave my ship two ways. Either I discharge them when I’m finished with them, or they leave over the rails, sewn into their hammock.”
On Tuesday, Ford arrived early and waited an hour at the beach before Miss Barclay—Jo—arrived.
“Mr. Spooner! What a surprise to run into you here. Again,” she said with a smile.
He raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Spooner?” he asked.
She lowered her gaze, though her smile did not diminish. “Ford,” she said softly, the sound like the stroke of a feather down his spine.
He gestured to the sack at his feet. “I happened to bring some food. Perhaps you’d like to share it with me?”
“You just happened to bring food?”
“Of course. I’m hungry frequently, you see. Shouldn’t like to wither away.”
He bit back a smile as he noticed her perusal of his shoulders and chest. He inhaled surreptitiously, broadening his ribs for her appreciation.
“I believe there is no danger of that, sir,” she said beneath her breath, as if she was not bold enough to make such a forward statement aloud. Fortunately, he had excellent hearing. He pressed his lips together so as not to grin and embarrass her, instead offering his arm politely.
By unspoken agreement they made their way back to the cluster of boulders at the far end of the beach. They ate their small picnic in mostly silence. It wasn’t awkward, necessarily, they just both seemed unsure of how to proceed after those kisses—kisses that seemed to hang in the air like dragonflies, dazzling and iridescent, but darting away if you turned to look at them.
Ford caught her staring at him several times. She caught him doing the same a dozen times. He couldn’t help it: she was the most interesting and beautiful woman he had ever encountered.
And yet the conversation remained stilted. Ford finally decided to address the elephant on the beach.
“I won’t kiss you again. You needn’t worry.”
“You—you won’t?” she asked, blinking her eyes and looking—dare he think it? —disappointed. He finally took pity on her.
“Not unless you ask me to. I don’t want you afraid that I’m going to pounce on you.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said, and he grinned as the pale gold of her cheeks flushed a brilliant scarlet. “That is,” she continued, clearly trying to regain her composure. She took a fortifying breath and met his gaze directly. “I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not worrying about you kissing me.”
He took a long drink from the bottle of ale he’d brought for their picnic and when he spoke his voice was husky.
“Does that mean you would like me to kiss you again?” He didn’t think it was possible for her cheeks to grow redder. She caught her lower lip in her teeth and fiddled with the serviette in her lap, but she didn’t break their gaze.
After a long moment, she whispered, “Yes.”
He could barely hear her over the sound of the surf, but watching her lips as closely as he was, he saw them form the word. A slight nod of her head reaffirmed her wish.
He grinned at her and stuffed the last bite of bread in his mouth. He watched her toy with the remains of her meal and take a great deal of care brushing crumbs from her skirts. Washing the bread down with a swig of ale, he studied her expression and waited.
When she looked back up at him, he slowly leaned forward, giving her time to draw back. Instead, she leaned forward as well, tilting her chin slightly so that when their lips met, it was a perfect fit. This kiss was less tentative than their first, and quickly heated to a tangle of tongues, lips nipping and caressing, breaths coming in rapid puffs.
He cupped her cheek with one hand. She clung to his shirtfront for balance. He braced his other hand behind her and started to ease her down.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. He lifted his head, afraid he’d moved too quickly.
“The ale,” she said, and he frowned in confusion. She scrambled back and righted the second bottle of ale, which Ford had knocked over. Her skirts were sodden with it and as she tried to brush them off, sand stuck everywhere. She glanced at her hands to discover they were equally sandy.
She looked up at him and he thought she might be upset at the ruining of her gown. Instead, she started to laugh. It was a joyful, infectious sound and he joined in, delighting in their amusement over something so small.
After that, they didn’t resume their earlier activity, but their conversation flowed more easily. They spoke of their daily lives, their favorite foods, and told each other silly little jokes.
Over their next several clandestine beach meetings, she told him how she’d come to be in St. Kitts. Ford felt again the fury that a man would hurt a woman, but particularly this woman.
My woman. The thought whispered through his mind, bringing him up short. He had no idea where their relationship was headed. Although it was common enough for a white man to take a black mistress, and even occasionally marry her as his father had, he’d known of no white women who’d married outside their race on St. Kitts.
Marry?
So be it, he thought. If she would have him, he suddenly realized he was willing to do anything to keep this happiness in her face. He wanted to show her that a real man treasures his woman.
Jo’s words trailed off and her hands landed in her lap.
“What is it?” she asked. “You look so serious.”
“Do I? I was just studying you.”
She frowned, even as a wry smile curved her lips. “Why on earth would you study me?”
“Because I find you infinitely interesting.”
“You do?” She breathed.
He nodded as he leaned closer. She leaned forward again as well and when their lips met, it was with a new sense of wonderment.
“Mes amis! How fortunate that I should stumble upon you here.”
Jo pulled back with a startled gasp, her fingers covering her mouth as if to hide what they’d been doing.
Ford raised his eyebrows at the boisterous Frenchman.
“And why is that Pallet?”
“It is only that a group of ladies are coming this way and while I am certain they would all be enchante to stumble upon such a tender scene, some of them may succumb to the urge to share their discovery with others.”
Jo jumped to her feet, her cheeks flaming red. Ford stood more slowly, studying the Frenchman’s face.
“How did you come to be here?” he asked Pallet.
“I am on the hunt for the perfect picnic spot for the ladies. They have sent me ahead to claim the most picturesque spot for them to sketch.”
“You’re escorting all the ladies?”
Pallet shrugged and smiled.
Ford glanced up the beach but couldn’t see beyond the curve of the shore.
“Mon frère,” the Frenchman said following his gaze. “If you will depart that way,” he indicated the jumble of rocks that marked the end of the beach. “Mademoiselle Barclay and I will distract the ladies so they do not see you as you climb.”
Ford glanced at Jo and saw concern battling with humor at their situation.
“I’ll be in the market tomorrow after luncheon,” she said softly.
He nodded and after gathering the remains of their meal, ducked around the boulders to find his way up the bluffs.
“Mas belles dames!” Ford heard Pallet call loudly. “Que belle chance! Look who I have stumbled upon out for a walk!”
As he crested the bluffs, Ford looked down to see Jo surrounded by a group of parasol-bearing ladies. On the ocean breeze he caught their exclamations of delight, sounding very much like the squawk of seagulls.
As he turned and headed back into town, it occurred to Ford that he and Jo were going to have to be more cautious in the future before someone less circumspect that Monsieur Pallet stumbled upon them.
Chapter Eight
Josephine returned home in a bemused state after being assimilated into the group of ladies who’d insisted she must join them for their picnic and sketching session. Despite the beautiful view, the ladies seemed more interested in the contents of their picnic baskets, and when Josephine tasted the punch, she realized why. It seared her throat as she swallowed and sent a warm glow through her veins that was not unlike the flush she felt when she looked at Ford.
The ladies—three young matrons, a widow, and two unmarried misses—collapsed into fits of giggles at the expression on her face.
“I find we must sometimes create artistic inspiration,” said Mrs. St. Claire as she refilled Jo’s fragile china teacup with the heady punch.
Jo sipped more slowly at this cup, wondering what, exactly, she was drinking. Around her the ladies gossiped about the residents of Basseterre and speculated on the island’s next scandal. Sketchbooks lay cast aside with barely a few lines filling them as the ladies devoured delicate finger sandwiches with their punch and flirted outrageously with Monsieur Pallet.
Jo was content to let their animated conversation fill her ears like the sound of the surf—ever present and soothing but requiring no real thought. That is, until she heard someone mention Ford. She sat up quickly, feeling her head catch up to her body a moment later. Glancing at the teacup, she carefully set it down before turning to hear the conversation.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. St. Claire said in agreement with whatever was just said. “Mr. Spooner is quite a delectable specimen. I would contend he is the most handsome man on St. Kitts.”
Josephine happened to agree, but she didn’t like hearing the elegant and bold Mrs. St. Claire discussing him as if he were on display solely for her pleasure.
Several of the other ladies gasped.
“You don’t agree?” Mrs. St. Claire asked, raising her delicate brows.
Miss Strathwait glanced at the ladies on either side of her. “He has very nice eyes to be sure but he’s…well, he’s black,” she whispered, as if it were uncouth to mention such a thing in polite company.
Mrs. St. Claire laughed, the sound throaty and condescending. “He’s only half-black, dear. His father was quite a wealthy landowner and recognized his son the moment he was born. There is even conjecture he married Mr. Spooner’s mother in a love match.
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. St. Claire continued. “I know you think that makes little difference. But given the limited availability of attractive men in the West Indies, I believe a lady must broaden her cast.”
The other women, friends of Mrs. St. Claire and clearly accustomed to or perhaps in agreement with her statements, merely smiled indulgently. The two unmarried ladies, however, could not contain their shock.
“But you’re married!” Miss Persimmons said at last.
“I am indeed. But have you seen Mr. St. Claire lately? The tropics do not agree with him. Besides, he seeks his solace in the arms of our cook.”
The two girls gasped in shock and Mrs. St. Claire laughed. “Oh not for that. Cook is quite talented, you see, at recreating all of the things Mr. St. Claire liked to eat when he was a boy. His valet has already had to let out his trousers twice in the last month!”
“Mr. Spooner is handsome.” Jo shocked everyone, herself included, by her statement. When everyone turned to look at her, she stammered, “But he is also kind and honorable. He has assisted my family on several occasions and we are deeply indebted to him.”
The group of ladies sat in shocked silence for several seconds, although Mrs. St. Claire gazed at her with a speculative gleam in her eyes.
Jo almost wished she was bold enough to add that Ford was quite the accomplished kisser, as well. She pressed her lips together so as not to chuckle as she imagined the looks of shock that statement would have elicited.
Instead, she took another sip of the diabolical punch and wondered how Ford would manage to kiss her tomorrow when he found her at the market.
The market was unusually busy, so much so that Jo didn’t even see Ford until he magically appeared at her side.
She was with Molly selecting fruit when a long arm reached over her shoulder to pluck a large plumrose from the stack.
“This one will be particularly sweet,” he said, handing it to her.
She grinned at him, studying his handsome face as though she hadn’t seen him for a month instead of less than a day.
Feeling Molly’s speculative gaze on her, she moderated her expression and sounded only slightly giddy when she said, “Good morning, Mr. Spooner. Shopping for fruit this morning?”
“Only the sweetest,” he replied, his gaze dropping to her lips.
She felt that familiar flush warm her body and bit her lip to keep from giggling. It occurred to her that it had been years since she’d been the type of girl who giggled. She liked that Ford brought
that out in her.
“Shipping business slow, eh?” Molly asked. “Never known you to do your own shopping before.”
“Ah, Molly, you’ve just never noticed me here at the market. I am quite self-sufficient, you know.” This last comment was an aside to Jo.
“Do tell, Mr. Spooner,” she murmured, trying to keep a straight face.
“Oh yes. I am quite a good cook in fact. I’ll send over some pickled June plum for you to taste.”
At the word “taste,” Jo’s gaze dropped to his lips and she had the sharp desire to nibble on their fullness. When she met his gaze again, his eyes were twinkling, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
“Mmph,” was Molly’s reply. “We have quite enough to eat, Mr. Spooner.”
Ford accompanied them around the square, offering to carry Molly’s basket when it grew heavy; an offer that was tersely declined.
When Ford paused to speak to an acquaintance, Jo leaned closer to Molly.
“Why are you being so short with Mr. Spooner? I thought you liked him.”
“It’s no good, miss. It won’t work, you and him.”
Jo drew back. “What do you mean?”
Molly looked at her, not unkindly, but slightly pityingly. “Any fool can see you two making calf eyes at each other.”
Jo felt her cheeks warm, but she also took umbrage at Molly’s censorious tone.
“And so what if we are?” she asked tartly.
Molly shook her head, her expression softening. “It won’t work, miss. You bein’ you and him bein’ him. They won’t accept it.”
“They? You mean society? I don’t care a fig what society thinks of me. I’ve no position to worry about.”
“No, but your brother does. They shun you, they’ll shun him.”
“But—” Jo didn’t know what to say. “But what about you and Chester? You two are always making calf eyes at each other. Well,” she amended at Molly’s raised brows. “Perhaps not calf eyes, but you do engage in flirtation. You can’t deny it.”
Molly shrugged. “I don’t deny it. Chester is a fine man and I enjoy teasing him, but that’s all there is to it.”
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