Tightening his grip on her waist, Morgan vowed to do just that. Even it if meant from himself as well. As if to weaken his resolve, her warmth melded into his side, showering him with her scent of rosemary and vanilla. His body responded. He loosened his cravat further.
She stopped humming. Thankfully because her voice was terribly off-key. Suddenly jerking from his grip, she swerved to face him. Light from a streetlamp trickled streams of silver over her, setting her ebony curls sparkling.
“Do you want to know a secret?” She fingered the whiskers on his chin and ran her gaze over him. “I think you are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.” She smiled. Not the smile of a seductress, but the pleased smile of a little girl who’d reached some grand conclusion.
The admission sent his heart reeling. “Shall I share a secret with you?” He tapped her on the nose.
“You find me attractive too? That’s no secret, silly. You’ve told me that before.” She gave him a coy smile and began walking again, dancing, in fact, holding out the folds of her skirt and drifting over the sandy street like a swan on a lake.
She tripped and Morgan dashed to catch her.
She folded into his arms and squeezed his biceps. “Hmm. So strong.
I feel so safe with you.” She cuddled against his chest.
A chest that now expanded beneath her admiration. Morgan found himself suddenly thankful he’d had nothing to drink, or he’d surely succumb to her charms.
She looked up at him. Her glistening eyes flitting between his. “Morgan, are we friends?”
He brushed a curl from her face. “Of course.” Though he wanted much more than that. Though he’d been hesitant to push her. Unsure of her feelings. Until now.
She backed away. “I’ve tried to be your friend.”
“Is it that difficult?”
“No.” She smiled.
“We can be more than friends if you’d like.”
“That wouldn’t be right.” Mischief winked from her eyes. “You don’t know who I am.”
“I know all I need to know.”
She gave him a puzzled look then grew sad. He took a step toward her, longing to wipe her sorrow away, replace it with the glee of only a moment ago, but she turned and sped forward. “You can’t catch me.”
Laughing, Morgan darted after her, reaching her side without difficulty. She glanced over her shoulder and giggled. Several of her curls loosened from their pins and tumbled down her back like silken ink. Morgan swallowed. He stopped her with a touch, and they strolled onward, arm in arm.
They approached Doc Willaby’s home, Adalia dancing down the path. She jumped onto the first porch step and turned around. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” She tapped her moist lips with her finger then leaned toward him, closing her eyes.
Morgan groaned inwardly and licked his lips, remembering her sweet taste, longing for it as a man longing for a drink after a long voyage. But no. He could not take advantage of her in this condition.
He rubbed his thumb over her jaw, searching for strength to resist this morsel freely offered to him. “Go inside, Adalia. Get some sleep.”
She popped her eyes open, disappointment stealing their sparkle. “I rather enjoyed our last kiss.” A tiny furrow formed between her brows. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that. It’s rather shameless of me, isn’t it?” She fingered the wooden post and leaned her head against it. “Did you enjoy it?”
Was she jesting? “Very much.”
“It felt like lightning in my stomach.” She spun her fingers over her belly.
Morgan’s heart lurched. Did that mean she had feelings for him? Or was it simply a physical reaction?
She leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, “You make me feel strange things, Morgan Rutledge.”
Strange, wonderful things, he hoped, as her words and the breath that carried them were making him feel right now. He cupped her face. “Good things?”
“Far too good.” She hovered her lips over his. Rum and vanilla assailed his senses, weakening his restraint.
He withdrew. “You are very special to me, Adalia.”
The trill of a whip-poor-will floated on a breeze that eased a strand of hair across Adalia’s cheek. She snapped it away, studying him as her eyes misted. “I care very much for you, Morgan.” She looked away. “Sometimes it hurts.”
Morgan took her hand in his. “It shouldn’t hurt.”
“We are from two different worlds. Worlds too far apart.” She spread her arms out then dropped them to her side, her voice breaking. “But I cannot seem to let you go.”
“Then don’t.” Placing a finger beneath her chin, Morgan brought her eyes to his. And what he saw within them thrilled him down to his soul. Despite the alcohol, or perhaps because of its ability to loosen her inhibitions, true affection burned in their depths. She cared for him! The realization sent his heart soaring and his mind spinning with possibilities. Could he hope to possess such a precious woman?
If only his father got to know her, perhaps he’d be willing to overlook her common birth. Only one way to find out. Morgan would invite her to the annual Rutledge party at their plantation. There, he would formally introduce her to his parents and declare his intentions to marry her.
An army marched through Adalia’s head. Not only marched but also fired round after round into her brain. Throbbing pain jarred her awake. Her thoughts scrambled to attention in a haphazard formation—a scattered row of clipped memories that mocked her with a shame she knew she should feel but had no idea why. Where was she? She reached up to rub her forehead when a tiny me-row preceded the stretch of a warm ball of fur curled on her chest.
“M,” Adalia could barely squeak out the single syllable from a mouth stuffed with sand.
The cat nestled against her chin, bringing her a moment’s comfort that quickly dissipated beneath the visions flashing through her wakening mind: her at Dillon’s Inn enjoying a concert; exotic tea that made her tingle all over; strolling about the room on Morgan’s arm. But then the memories became distorted: Morgan’s concerned face, his friends laughing at her, the man in white, disapproving glances, a walk home in the dark.
A kiss …
Adalia sprang up, instantly regretting it. M let out a whine of complaint and leapt from the bed while Adalia’s stomach bubbled like a witch’s brew. Holding it, she nearly gagged, trying to catch her breath, trying to sort through shifty memories. Had she kissed Morgan? Rays of sunlight speared her eyes. She squeezed them shut. What had she done? No. Not a kiss. She would remember that.
With difficulty, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Who had turned her head into an iron ball? It fell into her hands. She moaned, forcing down a burst of nausea. Foul breath curled her nose. Her breath? Had she partaken of alcohol?
Impossible. And yet …
The tea. That wonderful, devilish tea. From that slippery man, Mr. Saville. A trick. A cruel joke. But why?
M jumped into her lap and plopped down with a yawn.
“I fear I made a fool of myself last night, little one.” She scratched between his ears, his favorite spot. Purring rose as snippets of her conversation with Morgan broke through the surface of her murky mind. Adalia declaring her affection for him. Asking him, no begging him to kiss her! Admitting how his touch affected her.
She moaned and ran her fingers through her tangled hair, only now noticing that she still wore her gown. Her new gown, now hopelessly wrinkled and omitting a rather disagreeable odor.
Morgan had not kissed her. Though she’d all but begged him to. Shame sent a wave of heat up her neck even as her admiration for the man swelled. He’d not taken advantage of her … her condition. What sort of man would do that? A good man. An honorable man. A man who cared for her.
Struggling to rise, she hobbled toward her dressing bureau and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. The cool liquid did nothing to assuage her thirst. And everything to cause her stomach further discomfort.
How did peo
ple drink such horrid stuff night after night? She never wanted another sip of alcohol again.
Her closed Bible stared at her from her nightstand. The precious Word of God that had sustained her through the past seven years—had comforted her and instructed her and strengthened her to endure what no woman should have to endure. She’d never failed to read it every morning before she began her daily tasks. When had she stopped?
Leaning her forehead on the top of the bureau, she bit her lip against the agony raging through her head and creating a maelstrom in her belly. “I’m so sorry, Lord. I’ve neglected You. I’ve been so caught up in the busyness of life.” She sighed as tears spilled from her eyes, some plopping on the wooden floor below, some dribbling down the front of her dresser. “And I’m sorry I was foolish enough to trust a man I didn’t know. Forgive me. And please help Morgan to forgive me.”
Would Morgan forgive her? She could remember no hint of disdain from him last night. No disgust at her condition. Quite the opposite, in fact. Oh, why had she behaved the besotted carp when she’d wanted to tell Morgan of the goodness of God, of the joy one received when following Him? Good heavens! What a terrible witness she was! Her father would be mortified. She banged her head against the wooden bureau, increasing her pain. But it wasn’t enough punishment for what she’d done.
Opening her top drawer she reached behind her handkerchiefs and chemises and pulled out the pouch containing her mother’s pearls. Lowering onto her bed, she spilled them into her hand as M crawled into her lap and began batting the precious beads. “No, no, M.” She set the pesky feline on the floor. With pink nose in the air, he leapt onto the windowsill and stared outside, wearing much the same smug expression she’d seen among Charleston gentry. Smiling, Adalia leaned over and pressed the pearls to her forehead as she closed her eyes. The cool beads rolled over her skin, calming her throbbing pulse.
“Mama, I wish you were here. I wish I could talk to you, tell you everything that has happened to me since you and Papa went to heaven. I’ve gone from an orphan to a slave to a princess, Mama. From poverty to living like a queen.” At least when she was with Morgan.
Yes, so much had changed. Adalia couldn’t imagine ever going back to the life of a slave. And if she were truthful, not even the life of a mere servant. She had gained the respect of society, the love of a wealthy land owner, the privilege of attending elaborate parties. How could she ever go back? She stared at the pearls. Sunlight caressed them in sparkling grays and lustrous blacks. Beautiful, exotic, precious. Just like her mother.
Yet the people of this town would not see those qualities. They would not find Adalia beautiful or precious if they knew Negro blood flowed in her veins. It didn’t make sense. Wasn’t right. But what could Adalia do to change it? She slid the pearls back into the velvet pouch and tied it tight, hiding them away, wishing they were white and lustrous like most pearls …
And then hating herself for the thought.
Her mother would understand. She would love to see Adalia so happy, so adored and accepted.
Wouldn’t she?
A tap on the door exploded like rifle shot in Adalia’s head. Stuffing the pouch back into her drawer, she closed it and spun around. “Yes?”
Joy poked her head inside. “Are you all right, miss?”
Except for her pounding head, queasy stomach, and parched mouth? “Yes. Just getting a late start today.”
Slipping into the room, Joy set a basin of steaming water on the dresser and eyed Adalia’s disheveled gown with confusion. “The doctor’s been askin’ ‘bout you. He has a patient he wants you t’ see.”
Adalia sank back onto her bed. Today of all days.
“Miss, you don’t look too well.” Joy approached, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I don’t feel very well, I’m afraid. It was a rather … eventful evening.”
“Did you enjoy the concert?”
“What I remember of it.” Adalia rubbed her temples then glanced up into a pair of curious brown eyes. “It’s a long story.” It would do Adalia no credit to share the shameful tale with her maid. The thought stopped her—when had she begun to think of Joy as a maid and not a friend? When had Adalia become accustomed to even having a maid?
The precious girl inquired no further. Nor did an ounce of censure appear on her face. Instead Joy gave her a sympathetic look. “I’ll tell the doc you are ill today, miss. You needs t’ rest.”
“No, don’t.” Adalia’s harsh command stopped Joy short. She softened her tone and pasted on a smile. “I’ll be all right. Thank you.” She must attend to her duties. She must remember she was a tradeswoman, not one of the Charleston nobility.
“I’ll have Cook make you breakfast.”
“No.” Adalia cringed as her voice blared like a gong in her ears. “I mean, that’s kind of you, but I’m not very hungry.” At the girl’s wounded look, Adalia rose and folded her in an embrace. “Forgive me, Joy. I’m not myself this morning.”
The girl’s body stiffened. “Oh miss, you don’t smell so good.” She pushed away from her, eyes lowering. “I’s sorry, miss. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Despite her shame, despite the fact that Adalia felt as though a dozen carriages had ambled over her body, she could not help but laugh at the girl’s honesty.
The fear faded from Joy’s eyes, and she joined Adalia’s laughter, sending tension fleeing from the room. “Let me hep you freshen up and get dressed.”
Twenty minutes later, after splashing water on her face and arms, drinking some peppermint tea Joy had brought her, and donning fresh undergarments and a gown, Adalia headed downstairs. She turned to shut the door, and her glance landed on her Bible atop her nightstand.
Still closed and unread.
Batting away the conviction, she promised to do her readings and prayer later. When she had more time. Down in the foyer, instead of giving her medicines, instructions, and sending her on her way as she had hoped, Dr. Willaby beckoned her into the sitting room.
“Please.” He pointed toward a chair, his eyes never meeting hers.
The hairs pricked on her arms at the condemnation pouring from him. Squinting at the sunlight angling through the windows, Adalia eased into the chair, set down her medical satchel, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Forgive me for rising late, Doctor. I—”
“I know very well why you had trouble leaving your bed this morning, Miss Winston.” His voice stung with disappointment and something else—fear? “I’ll not hear your excuses.”
Mortified, Adalia remained quiet, praying the man would stop shouting.
“Can you deny that you partook of some sort of vile alcoholic brew last night?”
Her stomach lurched, sending a clump of bitterness into her throat. How did he know? She closed her eyes as faint memories of him standing in the foyer as she entered the house sifted through her mind.
“The Good Book says”—he tapped the pages of his open Bible—“be not drunk with wine, but be filled with the Holy Spirit.” Sharp eyes stabbed her from above wire spectacles.
“I can explain, sir.” She sent him a look of appeal.
“I hope so, Miss Winston, for I will not offer a room in my home and a position in my employ to an unscrupulous woman.” He slammed his Bible shut and set it aside, his bottom lip curling. “I understood you to be a chaste, godly woman.”
“I am …” She hesitated. “Unbeknownst to me, someone slipped alcohol into my tea last night.”
“Someone?”
“A man. At least I think it was him.” A crisp breeze stirred the curtains. The smell of roses helped to revive her jumbled thoughts. “I assure you, Doctor, I have never partaken of alcohol before. Nor shall I ever again if I have any say about it.”
He frowned, still gazing out the window, where the rattle of carriages sounded more like the frontline of a battle. “And these are the friends you keep?” Disdain rang in his tone.
“Most are kind, sir. I don’t know wh
y this man or anyone would do such a thing.” Unless it was to get revenge, to embarrass Morgan.
The doctor rose, adjusted the gray coat he always wore, and walked to the window. “Just for the fun of it, no doubt. These pampered brats are so bored, they find their amusement at the expense of others.” He faced her, more fear on his face than castigation. “Don’t you see how they are infecting you with their wickedness? No proper lady should be gallivanting about town at all hours of the night.”
Veil of Pearls Page 21